


Under His Wing

by geoodlestuff



Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Brendan has issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Ste has issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geoodlestuff/pseuds/geoodlestuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Amy kicks him out, Ste is left homeless. Lucky for him, the new owner of the restaurant is more than willing to take him in. Too bad her brother is an ass but, hey, whatever, Ste can deal. </p><p>Stendan AU <br/>Personalities and interests are tweaked. Slightly OOC but still the same people we know and love. Edited time frames, relationships and ages. Back stories are the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's 10:30 and the day is overcast. There's light drizzle, the kind that sticks to your skin, and the wind is damp and cloying. There's probably a storm coming soon and the villagers anticipate it from inside their homes, children gazing at the smoky clouds in wonderment and awe.

Ste's outside. Ever since Amy kicked him out - and quite rightly, too - he's been wandering the streets. He doesn't have anywhere to go, anyone to rely on, any place to visit. He's got his tracksuit and a large rucksack. To his name, he has three tracksuits, a toothbrush and paste, some deodorant, a towel and a bottle of shower gel. He's got no money left because the £10 he did have was blown on food and water in the past two days. He's been showering at the local gym, sneaking into the locker rooms without anyone noticing he hasn't paid his way.

He misses his kids; he misses Leah bribing him into playing dolls with her puppy eyes and pout; he misses Lucas babbling and spitting up milk onto his shoulder; he misses making breakfast for them and knowing the words to the theme song of Fireman Sam because it's always, always on in the morning.

He misses his family.

The sky rumbles above him and there's a flash of light over the earth, followed by a deafening crack, and then the heavens open up and its waters come crashing down, the light drizzle transforming into an unforgiving, torrential storm. Grumbling, Ste makes his way into the local restaurant that Tony used to own. He wonders where Tony is these days, and if he's doing well. There's also a hint of resentment there, because if Tony hadn't upped and left then Ste would probably have somewhere to stay right now. Still, he hopes Tony is doing okay. He knows he'll be doing better than Ste himself is. 

The new owners are nice enough, Ste knows. He's had a couple of conversations with the manager, a bubbly personality with golden hair, the curliest curls Ste's ever seen. Her outfits are a little... out there, to say the least. It suits her, though, she makes it work. Ste knows that her name is Cheryl, that she's Irish, that she has a husband called Nate and they're trying for a baby, and that her brother owns the new nightclub. He hasn't met her brother yet, nor has he seen him around. He just knows that he's Irish, just from a different part of the country, and according to Cheryl he's a little on the wrong side of the law. Ste can relate. The only difference is that Cheryl still loves and accepts her brother; Amy abandoned Ste.

Rationally, he knows that she did it for the safety of their kids. Irrationally, he resents her for turning her back on him when he was just trying to keep food on the table. 

He sits at a table in the back, clothes completely drenched and his hair glued to his forehead. He silently observes the customers, wondering if he could get away with eating someone else's leftovers or maybe take any tips they may leave before a worker sees them. He does feel a little bad for considering the option, because Cheryl is lovely and Ste likes her. They've built something of a friendship over the past couple of weeks. But he's got to eat somehow, and he knows Cheryl is more than well off. She's got a flashy apartment on the nicer end of the village, as she calls it (Ste's never seen this _nicer end of the village_ but he doesn't doubt her for a second), and her brother brings in a lot of money from the nightclub. If that wasn't an indicator, then the sleek black Audi he's seen her getting out of before now certainly is. It's not hers, but it's definitely her brother's. She told him so, and she also told him about how she can't drive. 

Just as he's about to get up and snatch some food from the table in front of him, Cheryl comes bouncing over to him with a bright smile on her face. Her curls bob on her shoulders and today she's wearing a flowery blouse with some very light blue skinny jeans, pink heels on her feet. He's a mixture of irritated and pleased to see her. He hasn't seen her in a week.

"Hey Ste, love!" She beams, flunking into the seat on the other side of the booth to him. He smiles at her, her natural flamboyance and happiness a little intoxicating and instantly putting him in a better mood.

"'eya, Cheryl," He says, accepting her over-the-table hug.

"Oh, love, you're soaked. Why aren't you in the house with your Amy?" She asks. Ste bites his lip and frowns, remembering why he's here in the first place. 

"We're sort of not together any more... and she kicked me out," He sighs, shrugging. Cheryl, bless her soul, looks downright offended, as if the concept of someone throwing Ste out is alien to her and the thought of someone not loving him any more actually hurts her.

"Oh, Ste, this won't do! Where have you been staying?"

"On the street," He replies. Cheryl's gasp is loud and her expression speaks volumes.

"No, this won't do at all. This is outrageous. Ste, you're staying with me," Cheryl says, matter of fact. Ste flails in his seat, taken aback.

"I- what? Seriously?"

"I insist," She fixes him with a stern nod. "Come on, grab your back and I'll take you to my apartment now. Brendan won't be able to pick us up, but the walk isn't that long. About three quarters of an hour." Ste looks at her in bewilderment, but nods and obeys her. He grabs his bag and slings it on his shoulders, following her like a lost puppy. Cheryl is an honourable woman, he decides. Brave and kind, in her actions and her words. She has to be brave to allow someone like Ste to stay in her home, surely. He was kicked out for being a low-level thug with anger problems. Surely she knows his past, or has suspicions. It's a topic they alluded in previous conversations, not to mention the scuffle she caught him in on the street but two weeks ago.

Still, he's more grateful for her offer than he's ever been for anything in his life, except the birth of his kids.

"Is Brendan your brother?" He asks and she nods. "Why is the walk three quarters of an hour? I thought you were only on the other end of the village, this place is small." Cheryl laughs softly and shakes her head.

"Ste, my dear boy. This village is larger than you think. You live in the central part of the village and most people consider that alone to be the entire village, but there's outskirts with nice fields around them. Our apartment block is alongside another next to some woodlands with a nice bar in it. Brendan did look into living in the centre of the village, but he's always been more interested in living somewhere with greenery and less people. Besides, no offence but the outskirts are nicer than the inner village."

"None taken," Ste nods, "I'll be the first to admit that Hollyoaks isn't exactly beautiful."

"It has its merits," Cheryl shrugs nonchalantly, "Besides, it's a step up from the streets. That's where my brother was living, before I found him again. Our da' is..." She hesitates, and Ste wonders if there's a similar back story to her relationship with her father as there is with he and his step father, "Well," she says, "he's dead now. And good riddance. But that's a different story for, hopefully, not another day." 

"My step dad was a bastard, too," He decides on telling her, "Smacked me about a bit, din'e. But he ain't dead, sadly. Ain't seen him in a few years though, not since our Leah was a baby." Cheryl gives him a smile, not of sympathy or pity but one of sad understanding. He appreciates that.

They walk through some winding streets and through an alleyway, before coming to a line of wooden fencing that surrounds a small field that Ste had no idea existed. He doesn't know how long they've been walking and talking for, but he figures they must be just over halfway because he's never been here before and this seems to be one of the fields Cheryl mentioned, with a circle of tall trees in the middle of it. It's weird, now that he thinks of it, that he's been so enclosed within the central part of the village that he never had a clue that there was more village beyond his central area. You can walk from one end to the other in around or under ten minutes. He didn't know that it carried on for at least two miles beyond that from either end 'til now. He just thought it was empty between Hollyoaks and the next town. 

They cross a bridge that has a fast-flowing river beneath it, and he stops to simply watch it for a few moments. Cheryl stops beside him with a smile on her face, finding something endearing about his childlike awe.

"You haven't been anywhere much, have you? Outside the centre of HO, huh," She muses and he shakes his head, no. 

"I went to Blackpool as a kid once, me and me mum, just us, when Terry weren't around to tell her what to do. We went to the beach and we 'ad fish n' chips then ice cream. The weather wasn't the best but we still paddled in the sea; it was the best day of me life. It was, really, the only time mum showed me any sort of love. She always told me how I were a mistake that was ruining her life, but I weren't the one who got her pregnant was I? Still, I always blamed myself 'cause that's how she made me feel," He sighs and leans against the bridge, resting his chin on his forearms.

"And I take it Amy helped you, did she?" Cheryl asks. He nods with a small smile.

"She had every right to kick me out. I'm messed up, me. I seriously don't blame you if you wanna take back your decision n' send me back, 'cause I was proper horrible to her. At first at least, anyway. I got some help with the anger stuff, but we didn't have much money and I can't get a job 'cause of me record so I did a bit of dodgy stuff. That's why she kicked me out, 'cause I broke her promise and it could've put the kids in danger. I don't blame her, me. I still love her. Anyway, I think I might love her a bit differently now. Not like I used to, but like a friend. I'd wanna be friends still if she'd let me." 

"I thought it'd only been a couple of days since you two broke up, and from the sounds of it you were childhood sweethearts, problems or not. And you have kids together. How can you be over her?" Cheryl asks, leaning next to him. Ste smiles softly at her, resigned, before he looks out at the river again.

"I think it's been coming for a while, to be honest. We hadn't been... y'know...  _together_...like, together, in a couple of months. Kissing her felt like kissing a sister, almost. I started kissing her cheek more than her lips n' stuff like that, y'know? She deserves someone who can love her the way I used to, without the violence." He feels Cheryl's arm wrap around his shoulders in some sort of a side hug and he laughs a bit at the feel of her lips pressing to his temple in a hard kiss.

"Ste, you're a diamond. No matter what you've done in the past. Now, c'mon. Let's get to the apartment, because I don't know about you but my nipples feel like they're about to freeze off," Cheryl says, causing Ste to snort with laughter. They spend the rest of the walk in companionable silence as Ste takes in the dirt paths and the long grass, the daises and the weeds and the little wells of rippling water, the smell of leaves in the rain. 

Cheryl pushes open a gate and suddenly they're out of the sections of field they'd walked through and in a sort of grove, with a couple of apartment blocks on one end and a few houses lining the sides of the street. They're posh yet cosy, in a weird but nevertheless beautiful sort of way. The houses are made of rust-coloured bricks or have a Tudor design, with large windows and little pots of flowers lining the outer-sills. They have front gardens, too. 

The blocks of flats aren't large, about six floors each, and there seems to be about 3 apartment houses in each row. They'll be pretty spacious inside, Ste imagines, and they're certainly for the folk with more than a few copper pennies in their pockets. There's large lawns in front of the two apartment blocks that lead behind into the woodlands. It's nice, Ste thinks; lovely, even, if that was a word he used. 

"Are you sure Brendan won't mind me staying, Cheryl?" Ste asks warily, eyeing the main door to the flats as they approach it. Cheryl titters and gives him a small smirk.

"Who cares what he thinks? You're my guest and that's how it'll be staying," She says, with a less than innocent glint in her eyes, "Besides, I'm his baby sister. I get what I want." Ste tries not to find that statement a little bratty, knowing that Cheryl is only joking.

Like predicted, Cheryl's place is more than a little flash. The walls are a royal shade of purple and in the centre of the living room there are two leather sofas right-angled around a plush rug with a dark mahogany coffee table. There's a large TV on the wall above, and the mantle above the fireplace holds host to a vase of roses and various personal items like car keys and pictures of Cheryl and who must be her husband.

There's a photo on the end of two children, one with blonde curls and one with ruffled dark hair. It must be Cheryl and her brother, Ste decides. Cheryl looks about nine, he'd guess, and Brendan looks about twelve. Cheryl is smiling brightly, dimples and everything, but it's Brendan who catches Ste's eye. His face is sullen, lips pressed in a tight line, icy blue eyes dull with something that seems a lot like resignation, and he looks as if he'd rather be anywhere else. The picture doesn't meet the other end of the frame, and there's a clear jagged line where the picture has been ripped. Now Ste looks closer, he can see a large, wrinkled hand on Brendan's shoulder. Ste would put money on that being their dad. 

He's torn away from his inspection when Cheryl leads him into the kitchen, showing him the large fridge, fully-stocked, and the sleek silver gas oven. It's your average kitchen, as far as possessions go, except that everything is more costly than Ste would ever dream of affording. There's three bedrooms, Cheryl tells him, so he can have an actual bed. There's a loud bang followed by an Irish-sounding growl of  _"shit"_ and Cheryl rolls her eyes. 

"Brendan's in his room. He probably won't join us for dinner," She sighs, like it's to be expected.

"I thought you were close with your brother," Ste frowned, puzzled. Cheryl takes his hand and leads him to his new bedroom, for however long he'll be staying.

"He's emotionally stunted, to say the least. We're close when we're in the same room. Otherwise, he keeps to himself," She explains, opening the door and ushering Ste through. He takes in his new room with a wide open mouth, slack-jawed in shock. He's never stayed in a room so spacious or comfortable or expensive before. There's a queen-sized bed in the middle of the wall, its headboard against the window frame, and a wardrobe in the corner. The carpet is thick enough to sink your toes into, and it's a shade of grey that matches the bed sheets. The walls are lustrous black and white, and everything is a stark contrast to the rest of the house with its purple, white and cream themed paints.

"Whoa, this is great," He whistles lowly under his breath and Cheryl laughs.

"You think so? Personally, I think it's far too impersonal and minimalist, which is exactly why I didn't let Brendan do my room. His room is similar to this, to be honest. In fact, I think it's actually colder than this one," Cheryl tuts, shaking her head with her hands on her hips as she looks around at the design of the bedroom, like it's her first time seeing it as well. There's a glass computer desk on another wall next to a bookshelf, and Ste thinks it's pretty damn cool.

"No, I love it, me, it's great. Thanks for this Cheryl, so much, really, it's more than I deserve."

"Oh, love," Cheryl gushes, wrapping her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug, "Me and you are gonna be like two peas in a pod, Ste."


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out, Cheryl isn't the best chef. It's amusing to Ste at first, considering she owns a restaurant, but then Cheryl points out that she does the business side of it, and he supposes that's fair enough.

That's how Ste finds himself making dinner for three in the house he's been lodging at for only a few hours, having to be shown where everything is from finger directions alone as Cheryl argues with her brother on the phone. To say it's a little disorientating is an understatement; Cheryl really doesn't have any coordination, and it doesn't help that her attention is divided.

Ste makes it work though, so by the time Cheryl has finished her lengthy debate/argument/my brother is being an awkward prick, love, which is nothing unusual so don't worry, he's plated up lasagna with a side of garlic bread.

"It's not much but, well, you don't 'ave a lot in, Cheryl," Ste mumbles, scratching at the back of his neck. Cheryl bats a hand at him, rolling her eyes fondly.

"The fact that you even cooked in the first place is brilliant, love, I'm sure it'll be nice," She smiles. Ste takes a seat and watches as Cheryl puts her brother's portion in the microwave. He finds himself wondering what Brendan looks like now, what he acts like when he's at home. There's no one else here, Ste notices. He wonders where Cheryl's husband is, if they live together or not. That happens sometimes, doesn't it? He can't imagine that her husband would want to live with his wife in the same space as her brother.

She sits across from him and the first few moments are silent, almost awkwardly so. Ste eats while Cheryl taps away on her phone, food yet to be touched. Eventually, she puts her phone side and gives Ste an apologetic look. He accepts with a nod of his head. Thankfully, Cheryl decides to speak up.

"Oh my God, Ste," She says once she's swallowed her first forkful, "This is amazing, love!" He ducks his head and smiles, shy, bashful.

"Err... thanks," He musters. Compliments are a foreign concept, handed out to people that aren't like Ste. He's not sure how to take it, if he's honest. 

Cheryl just beams at him, though, so he figures his coy acceptance is enough. They make conversation after that, none of it awkward, getting to know each other. Cheryl tells Ste about Nate, explaining that three times a year he goes back to visit his parents for a week now that they've finally come to an understanding - apparently, Nate's mother didn't very much approve of Cheryl at first - and how he'll be back in a couple of days; she talks of the friends she's made while she's been here, Nancy especially, and how Brendan has become close with Mitzeee and "that shady bloke, Warren"; she also mentions how things are going with the cafe and how she's proud of herself, after spending most of her life never thinking she could make anything for herself. 

In return, Ste tells her about his old friend Callum who visits every once in a while, how Leah is really into art and he thinks she'll go far, that Lucas will be going into reception next year at his old primary school, and how he hopes that one day he can taking them camping if Amy lets him see them again.  
Cheryl assures him that she will, that she just needs time to cool off. He appreciates the sentiment, and hopes she's right.

* * *

A little while later, Ste has put his tracksuits away, his rucksack is tucked inside one of the drawers under the bed, and his toiletries are in the en suite.

That's right - there's an en suite. Ste nearly fainted.

He wanders back into the living room where Cherly is sitting on the sofa with a glass of red wine and some dark chocolate on her lap, watching an old episode of Doctor Who, it seems, with the tenth doctor. Tennant has always been Ste's favourite.

He joins her on the sofa and she smiles wide, offering him some chocolate. He takes a couple pieces, thanking her, and politely declines the wine she offers. He's never really had anything other than cheap cider and piss-poor lager. He's not sure he'll like something as rich and expensive as red wine. Not yet, at least, anyway.

They sit in companionable silence as they watch the Doctor and Martha sprint away from the Judoon, before Ste finds his attention being stolen by other things around the room.

The clock on the wall, above the mirror that rests on the wall above the mantle piece, is large and silver, but its tick-tocks are soft despite its size, barely noticeable. There are more pictures around the place, hung up in wooden painted frames. There's a couple more recent ones of Cheryl and Brendan, he notices.

As it turns out, Brendan is a very attractive man. Ste almost feels a little envious. He's got thick dark hair and icy blue eyes that really capture your attention. His jawline is cut like marble, and there's a light smattering of dark stubble that thickens slightly over his top lip, like the beginnings of a moustache. He's tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and he wears a suit well.

The only time Ste ever wore anything remotely suit-like was his school uniform.

Something else captures his eye, too. There's a small photo stuck on the wall next to the mirror, like a Polaroid. He gets up and wanders over to it, Cheryl eyeing him curiously but saying nothing.

In the picture, Brendan, a little younger than in the other photo, sits casually on a hill with a relaxed smile on his face; and he has a dimple, too. He's got less stubble here, yet it seems more full, and his hair is longer and looks more brown, looks fluffy. He's dressed down, and the first thing Ste thinks is that he looks gorgeous, which is weird, but he decides on ignoring it for now. He looks softer around the edges somehow. His frame is a little more slight; he looks more approachable. There's a little message written over it from someone called Lynsey, and he reads it slowly.

_Sad to see you go. This is my fave pic of you. Love you and miss you. I'll come visit. Please take care of yourself - Lynsey._

Cheryl comes up behind him with a smile on her face; it looks soft and fond, something private, and Ste feels a little wrong-footed, like he shouldn't be seeing it.

"Who's Lynsey?" Ste asks, eyes returned to the picture in front of him.

"Lynsey is my best friend, she's like a sister to us. Brendan especially," Cheryl lets out a small chuckle, placing a hand on Ste's shoulder, "She's like his second little sister."

"It's a nice photo," Ste comments absently. Cheryl nods beside him.

"Yeah, it is. He was twenty-two there, so... it was taken about four years ago. We were on a little road trip across Ireland, just me, Brendan, Lynsey and Paddy. It was the first time my brother ever really smiled. He was free, there, relaxed," She sounds wistful as she speaks, a nostalgic smile on her face.

"And what is he now?" Ste asks when they sit down on the sofa together. Cheryl looks at the photo again and sighs softly, shaking her head.

"The same as before the photo was taken," She says.

He doesn't know what that means, but it makes something inside him feel unsettled. He merely nods, wondering about the mystery that is Brendan Brady.

* * *

The next morning, after showering and changing into a clean tracksuit, Cheryl appears in the doorway.

"I was thinking we could go back to your house and get some more of your stuff," Cheryl smiles. Ste flails, nearly tripping over his own feet. She gives him an apologetic look, before barrelling on, obviously sensing his hesitation. "I know you think Amy won't want to see you, but it's been a few days now and she's probably worried. She'll have cooled off a bit now, love. We won't be there long, we'll just get your stuff, explain that you're staying with me and my brother, then get going."

Ste nods, sighing, and goes into his bathroom to brush his teeth and sort his hair out. He comes out again to find Cheryl sitting on his bed, waiting for him.

"I don't really have that much at home anyway, Cheryl," He tells her, scratching at the back of his neck nervously, "Just some pyjamas, some more trainers and tracksuits. I've got two pairs of jeans as well. We won't be there long. Promise."

Cheryl looks amused, shaking her head and tutting.

"I think that's what I was telling you earlier, Ste, about not being there long," She titters, throwing her arm around his shoulders, "C'mon, Brendan's already taken the car and gone to the club so we'll get a taxi." Ste nods and followers her outside.

Unlike yesterday, with the biting winds and the lashing rain, a biting storm, today is sunny and warm. The pavements are dark where they've been saturated by the rain, the fields are damp and muddy, and there's that musky, wild scent that always follows after the heavens have opened up. The air is humid, cloying, and it's a nice change to the cold they've been having recently.

Ste slides into the back seat of the taxi, Cheryl in the front next to the driver, and watches out of the window as they drive along.  
It's mid-March, and it seems as though Spring has finally decided to show up. Soon, there'll be blossom on the trees and flowers blooming beautifully. For now, the village holds its breath and waits. 

* * *

Amy looks conflicted when she opens the door and sees Ste on the doorstep. He smiles sheepishly at her. In response, she folds her arms over her chest and frowns like she doesn't know what to do with him.

Cheryl pops up behind him - quite literally - and she startles both Amy and Ste.

"Hey, love, is it okay if we come and get Ste's things? He's staying with me now," Cheryl announces, bubbly and bright as anything. Amy's eyes widen, but she nods anyway. She looks shell-shocked.

Ste guesses that Cheryl can have that kind of affect on people. She's a little full-on, and some people don't know what to do with that.  
They step inside when Amy moves back and Ste leads Cheryl to his room. She helps him take the remainder of his clothes and trainers, packing them up into a small suitcase. He collects some pictures of the kids and Amy - some of them he's on, some of them he isn't - and he takes the book he bought himself when he was ten, after saving up pennies and change he found on the roadsides or managed to steal from Terry. It's a tattered, well-thumbed copy of Oliver Twist.

Due to his dyslexia, he couldn't read it at first. But, determined to do well and prove his step-dad wrong, he paid extra attention in class, went to group study sessions during lunch time for children like himself who had dyslexia or other difficulties with English, and tried to read a page every night when he got home.

By the time he was fifteen, he could read almost as well as the other kids in his class. He read Oliver Twist all the way through in three nights, only stumbling every once in a while.

He looks at it now, remembering how proud he'd felt. It didn't matter that Terry gave him a good beating on the same night he finished it for being a "pansy" and a "faggot", slurred insults at him for enjoying a book instead of "playing football like real boys do". He'd finished a book all by himself, and he was proud.

He runs his palm over the cover, sweeping away a light collection of dust. Cheryl takes his bags out of the room and he sits on his bed, smiling down at the book.

Amy comes and sits next to him; she knows the story surrounding the book better than she knows that actual story of the book; she knows its sentiment, and she smiles at him for the first time in just over a week. It floods him with a feeling of relief when she hugs him, and he buries his face into her neck and inhales the sweet smell of her perfume and home-cooking. She smells like home, comfort and safety.

But this isn't his home anymore, and he'll miss being woken up by his kids jumping on his chest in the morning.

"Can I see them?" He asks, voice soft and cautious. Amy pulls away from him and takes his hand in hers, a concerned frown on her face. Ste braces himself for the inevitable rejection - surprised when that's not what he gets.

"I have conditions," She says, and his eyes are wide and his lips parted slightly so he doesn't say anything, just lets her carry on, "You get yourself a good, honest job, Steven. You hear me? You get a job, and you clean your act up. You make a savings account and you put half of your wages into it, keep it for emergencies and treating the kids.

"And you know what else? You get out of those tracksuits and start dressing like a respectable member of society, Ste. You're not a teenager anymore, alright? You're twenty-one, you're an adult, and you need to start acting like one. Life hasn't been fair to you, no, but it's the hand you've been dealt so now you should start growing up and making the best of your life, not just for the kids but for yourself too.

"Also, I picked up some leaflets for you. Whether or not you take them, it's your choice; but it's wise if you do. Some of them are for counsellors, and there's a couple on CBT where you can go to work on your anger issues. You do this, and then you can see them. You need to clean up your act, and I need to be able to not lie to our kids about where daddy is. Okay?"

Ste nods quickly and furiously, holding her hands tightly. He's overwhelmed that she's giving him yet another chance and he knows he can't screw it up this time, that he's got to do something about it. So he'll get himself a job, start earning, wear decent clothes and stay on the right side of the law.

It feels like a lot; and it is a lot. But he's confident he can do it, because he'll do anything for his kids. This feels like a new page-- no, scratch that. This feels like a new book: it's the beginning of a sequel, where everything gets better. He knows he can't let himself fuck it up this time, that he has to try.

He takes the leaflets she hands to him and folds them, putting them in the pocket of his tracksuit jacket and zipping it up. The idea of counselling, of therapy, forms a knot in his throat. He swallows dryly around it and avoids feeling affronted. He's not about to lose it on Amy for suggesting he needs help; he knows he does, and he's more concerned about being able to see his kids. He wants to see Leah's drawings, take her to the park again, and read the children's books to her. He wants to help Lucas learn the alphabet and string together coherent sentences - all things his parents never did for him when he was a child.

He doesn't want to be like his real father and disappear from their lives before they've even begun; and he wants to be the father his step-dad could never be: kind, loving, attentive, a role model.

This is his new life, now. Living with his new friend and her brother, getting himself a decent job and money to support himself and his kids. 

* * *

Getting a job is harder than it seems.

He knew it would be challenging, but he didn't expect this. He's got a criminal record, for one, which is why he knew it'd be hard in the first place. However, there are a few places - the shop, the bar, the beauty salon - where his criminal record doesn't matter because he knows the owners; it's simply an issue of there being no jobs available.

He gets back to the apartment and flops face first onto the sofa, letting out an aggravated sigh. This is not how he imagined things going. He thought it'd be difficult, but he'd still manage to get a job in a week or so. He even bought a suit!

Okay, so Cheryl bought him a suit and he promised to pay her back once he had the money, despite her insistence that it wasn't a dip in her bank account - which he very much didn't doubt - but still! He had a suit and a CV that showed that, yes, despite his dyslexia, he still earned a C in English; and he also got a B in Maths, a B in Science, and an A in Food Technology. His criminal record is an issue, but he still has intelligence and determination.

If he's honest, he just wants to curl up in a ball and hide away from the world. Three weeks he's been job hunting now - three!  
Odd, also to him, that he hasn't seen Brendan once. He's heard him, sure.

His voice gives Ste the shivers. It's deep and gravelly, like honey dragging over silk. Ste's heard his voice plenty: shouting at someone on the phone, talking to Cheryl in another room, laughing with Warren Fox in the living room while Ste was trying to sleep. He hasn't seen him once, though, and that strikes Ste as extremely odd. He almost wonders if Brendan is actively trying to avoid him.

Something else that strikes Ste as extremely odd, is how he went from thinking about his consistent failure in finding a job to thinking about Cheryl's brother, whom he hasn't even caught a glimpse of in the month he's been living here. 

Nate, however, Ste has met. He's back at home now, and he's a pleasant man with short, dirty blonde curls and teal coloured eyes with fair skin and light stubble. His accent is posh, Ste thinks. Cheryl says she barely even notices it anymore, but it used to be something she teased him about a hell of a lot when they first got together.

Nate is well-mannered, has an aura of calmness about him, and is very charasmatic, as it turns out. On their meeting, Ste learned that Nate used to work tending horses and taking tourists on carriage rides. Cheryl tells Ste fondly of the misunderstandings the ensued, the rocky start to their relationship, how she initially hated his "pompous ass", and how he neglected to mention that he wasn't really a scruffy stable boy with a posh accent and that he was actually a successful business owner with a bank account worth more than the entire village.

Ste pondered from time to time on why, it seemed, everyone he was coming to be involved with just lately was filthy rich. Not that it's a problem, it's just a little strange. If someone had told him a month ago that he was about to become friends with a millionaire and share a house with him and his wife - who had a few hundred thousand between herself and her brother as well - then he would have laughed them into next week.

Funny, how things turn out.

Cheryl has offered him money on numerous ocassions, but he just can't accept. He can't be loitering and using Cheryl's money. He's got to do this for himself, no matter how long it takes. He promised Amy.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Nate's voice brings him out of his thoughts, startling a little. He peers up from where the lapels of his blazer have been clutching at his face, suit all rucked up and ready to be washed again, to see Nate smirking down at him with barely concealed amusement.

"Glad you think me havin' the worst luck with jobs is amusing, Nathan," He grunts, tucking his face back into the sofa cushion once again. Nate laughs from somewhere above him, having moved.

"Here's an idea," Nate says, picking up Ste's feet and moving them off the sofa so he can sit down. Ste grumbles but doesn't budge, now awkwardly twisted half on, half off the sofa. "Cheryl's head chef just quit, and you're good at cooking aren't you? Why not get a job at Cheryl's cafe. You don't want to take her money, but if you do it this way then you'll be earning it instead. How about it?"

That... that actually sounds like a great idea. Perfect, even!

Ste flings himself onto his back and sits up, beaming at Nate with bursting excitement.

"That's great, yeah!" He agrees, "I could totally do that! D'you think she'd let me?" Nate snorts, rolling his eyes.

"No," He says dryly, "That's why I suggested the idea in the first place, because it's totally out of the realm of possibility."

Ah, yes. Ste forgot to mention that Nate is one sarcastic bastard.

"By the way, it's a restaurant. Cheryl would kill you for calling it a cafe," Ste points out, watching as Nate's face twists somewhat, somehow amused and indifferent at the same time. Nate finds a lot of things amusing, Ste's noticed. He wonders what it'd be like to have that kind of optimism, to be able to see the humour in everything life throws at you.

"C'mon, it's a cafe really. Well, a diner, I suppose, but still." Nate says reasonably, and, well, Ste can't argue with that.

He rolls his eyes and smacks the older man upside the head with a pillow, laughing when he makes a startled noise somewhere between a pig's snort and a cat mewling. Nate retaliates by flinging the pillow at Ste's face, effectively knocking him backwards and sending him tumbling off the arm of the sofa.

It's at that moment - with Ste on his back, legs hooked over the sofa in a tangled splay, a pillow shoved under his chin and putting his head at an off angle while he snorts the most unattractive laugh known to man - that he meets Brendan for the first time.

To say he's embarrassed is an understatement. More like, he's beyond the valley of complete and utter mortification and someone should seriously just kill him. Right here. Right now.

Brendan's on the phone with someone, but he's silent now, one eyebrow arched judgementally whilst his eyes still manage to convey a mix of bewilderment and indecisiveness - like he can't figure out what he's supposed to do in this situation. He's so beyond bemusement that Ste actually feels a little bad for the guy.

Ste, on the other hand, is an awkward tangle of limbs, and he does nothing to help himself by simply gawking at the man above him. He gets distracted, momentarily, by the way Brendan's shirt strains against the barely concealed strength of his chest, before his eyes flicker up to the man's jaw and the tick going off like crazy.

Nate, however, seems to think this is the most hilarious thing he's ever witnessed in his life. And, to be fair, if the tables were turned then Ste would probably agree. They're not, though, and he's got a good mind to suffocate Nate with the pillow currently pressing against his Adam's apple.

"... I'll call ye back, Foxy," Brendan says, "something came up," He hangs up and lets his eyes roam down Ste's body before coming back to look at his face. Ste blushes automatically and flings himself off the sofa, stumbling his way into a standing position, suit crumpled and hair in disarray.

Brendan regards him with a disdainful look, which, hey, rude. Maybe looking like a pile of dislocated limbs while snorting unattractively isn't the best first impression he could make, but wow; there's no need to be that judgemental.

"And you must be the council rat that my sister's taken a liking to," Brendan drawls, "Can't see why."

Ste frowns, pouting. He feels a little angry, now, and a lot insulted.

"Er, I dunno who you think you are but you don't know me so you've got no right, talking to me like that," Ste snaps, and tries not to cringe when he realises he's got a hand perched on his hip and his attempt at defending himself is probably making him look more like a sassy woman with a bitch of an attitude.

He promptly lowers his arm to his side again and clenches his fist.

Brendan's eyebrow flicks up again, and he's got this look on his face like he doesn't know whether he should be violent or amused. Ste hopes he decides on the latter; he doesn't like his odds, should he end up fighting with this guy. Also, he's Cheryl's brother so he doesn't really want to cause upset between them; and, not to mention, Brendan pays the bills for this house so he should probably try to get on his good side once things have cooled off a little between them.

He half expects Brendan to say something back but instead he gets a calculating sort of hum and a shrug, before Brendan swaggers off into the kitchen and raids the fridge.

Well, that was certainly anti-climatic. He doesn't know whether he should be disappointed or relieved. Beside him, Nate has quietened down and now only sits with a smug little smirk on his face.

"Oh shut up, you," Ste scoffs, throwing the pillow at him. He looks over at Brendan and sees the man roll his eyes irritably. Well, Ste thinks, you're not all that likable yourself.

* * *

He doesn't see Brendan again for another two weeks. In that time, Cheryl gives him a job at the restaurant and the majority of his time is given to preparing and cooking meals and desserts for customers and snacking on the left over ingredients on his lunch break.  
Amy popped in one afternoon while he was mid-way through rolling some asparagus in bacon. (The menu has become a little more sophisticated since Ste's been here, and the clientele seem to approve. Thus, Cheryl's prices have gone up ever so slightly due to the increase in suit and tie customers as well as the extra she pays for the better ingredients, there's been some adjustments to the decor, and Ste's wages are given a healthy boost.)

She had smiled brightly at him, telling him how proud she was. In return, he let her sample some of the food and they sat together on his lunch break and had a nice long conversation about how the kids were doing, what Amy's plans were for the school holidays, and whether or not Ste had been to see the counselor or therapist. He hadn't, but he planned to. He'd already had an incident with Nate just the week before that resulted in a broken mirror (talk about bad omens) and vehement apologies to Cheryl.

He's just out of the shower on his day off when Brendan walks into the bathroom while he's toweling off.

He shrieks and falls to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs and towel.

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph, lock the feckin' door ya eejit," Brendan yells, slamming the door on his way out. Okay, so maybe that one was Ste's fault. In his defense, though, he figured he was alone in the house since Cheryl had disappeared somewhere with Nate and he never usually saw Brendan. One would think Brendan would've heard Ste in the bathroom; he's not exactly a quiet housemate, and he knows he was whistling loud and tunelessly before Brendan came in.

Maybe Brendan has hearing difficulties, or maybe he was just entirely too wrapped up in his own world. Ste gets the impression that Brendan is lost in his own head most of the time; and if he isn't then he's working or he's got a friend either in the house or on the phone.

Ste wonders if Brendan has any other friends outside of Warren Fox and Mitzeee. The chances are slim, he thinks. And, also, Cheryl mentioned about her brother being a little dodgy, and with a friend like Warren Fox he doesn't doubt her, so that line of work probably doesn't give someone the time to broaden their social circle - it's probably also a risky thing to do, considering.

Once he's gotten over his embarrassment, he brushes his teeth and dries off, wrapping the towel around his waist and darting quickly from the bathroom to his bedroom. He changes into one of his pairs of jeans - both of which have seen better days - and puts on a polo shirt.

He set up a bank account when he got the job, and he gets paid at the end of every week since Cheryl knows him so personally. He gets £10 an hour and he works nine hour days, five days a week, and he's certain he gets overpaid; but it doesn't matter much, because he did improve Cheryl's profit and she certainly has money to waste. There's currently £750 in his savings accounts, and £150 sitting in the palm of his hand.

He figures today is a great day to go shopping for those clothes Amy plans on having him wear. Y'know, normal, decent stuff that suits him and makes him look more respectable than worn tracksuits and dirty trainers. Stuff that Amy desperately wants to see him in, so he can be a decent role model for his kids.

He calls her up and they agree to meet in the village in an hour. He orders a taxi for forty-five minutes' time, and goes to sit in the living room. That's where he finds Brendan, sitting on the other end of the sofa in denim jeans and a black jumper that clings nicely to his physique. He's got thick black socks with a hole just over his little toe, and he looks relaxed. He's reading a book quietly with his feet tucked up next to him, and it's the least threatening Ste's ever seen him look.

Brendan glances up and catches Ste's eye, arching an eyebrow before choosing to ignore him again in favour of his book. Ste can't see what he's reading, but it's thick and looks relatively new. He'd never had put Brendan down for a bookworm, but that bookcase that's practically spilling over with classic novels, poetry, general fiction and crime/mystery dramas suddenly makes a lot more sense.

The silence isn't awkward, surprisingly, but maybe that's because Brendan is immersed in his own thing. Ste tries to start up a conversation.

"What ya reading?" He asks, and Brendan looks up at him again and sighs heavily.

"What's it to you?" He asks, glaring. Ste doesn't let it show, but he's feeling more than a little intimidated right now. Still, he huffs and rolls his eyes.

"Wow, right, I don't know if you know, but there's this thing called being civil and not acting like a complete dick when someone tries to converse with you," Ste sasses, watching the way Brendan's steady glare gets a lot more intense, his eyebrows lowering menacingly.

"I'm reading a book, that doesn't exactly scream come and talk to me. I don't know if you know, but there's this thing called shutting the fuck up. You should look into it, you'd be a lot less annoying." Brendan is surprisingly snarky when he wants to be, and his words have a bite to them that leaves Ste feeling sore. He frowns, refusing to feel hurt over the fact that Cheryl's dick brother doesn't like him even though he hasn't even given him a chance.

"Ass," He mutters, glaring at the floor as though it's somehow the ground's fault that Brendan is a major prick.

"Takes one to know one, kid," Brendan grunts.

Ste ignores him and practically jumps out of his seat in his haste to get away when the taxi honks its horn for him to leave.


	3. Chapter 3

Amy's dressed in a white dress with pale pink flowers patterned on it, with tan Gladiator sandals and a white scarf. She smiles when she sees him, gives him a kiss on the cheek and a hug, and tells him that they're going into the town; he could've guessed that for himself, but he just nods good-naturedly and follows her to the bus stop.

When they arrive in town, she pulls him straight into the shopping centre. It's like it used to be, except this time Amy isn't showing her boyfriend what looks good on him, she's showing her friend.

He kind of feels like the gay best friend in this situation. Then his mind drifts to Brendan and what a complete asshole he is, but how good his chest looked in that shirt.

And now really isn't the time to be having a gay crisis. Really. He needs to stop. Like, right away. It's like Callum all over again, except this time he's familiar with the feeling and he really doesn't want to be having it. It's not fun this time. It's not new. It's just scary. He's got kids, for crying out loud. Being gay doesn't make any sense.

"Ste?" Amy's voice breaks into his musing. He blinks owlishly before offering her a sheepish smile. "What's wrong? You've got a miserable face on you and I've said your name four times," She frowns, concerned.

"Was just thinking about where I live now, is all," He smiles, shrugging.

"Why, are you not happy there? I thought things were going well," Amy looks worried all of a sudden, and Ste feels guilty for making her feel that way. There's nothing wrong with him, he's just confused; she doesn't need to worry.

"No, I am, it's great there. Cheryl's awesome, Nate is nice n' everything. I mean, Cheryl's brother's a bit of a dick, but it's cool. I don't see him much anyway. I was just thinking stuff over, y'know? Nothing wrong with me, you ain't got owt to worry about, Ames. Trust me."

Amy looks more relaxed, seeming to accept his answer. She gives him a wry grin, shaking her head.

"I've seen Brendan around. Me and the girls went for a drink in his club last week when dad had the kids. He seemed pretty charming to me, very handsome." She grins at his affronted look.

"Er, no," Ste snorts, "Charming my arse. He's a proper dick, 'im." Amy gives him a teasing smirk, a glint in her eye.

"Or maybe he's just a dick to you," She chuckled, "He was a perfect gentleman to me and the girls."

Ste frowns at this. Why is Brendan nice to everyone but him, then? What exactly has he done wrong? He's only seen the man three times in the month he's been living there, and every time they've had a bit of a snap at each other it's always been Brendan who starts it.

"Really?" He asks, scrunching his nose up. Amy nods, giving him a little shrug.

"He gave us drinks on the house since it was our first time in the club, flirted a little, y'know, in that friendly, sociable sort of way instead of actual come-ons, then he just went behind the bar and served some drinks before he gave that Mitzeee girl a hug and they went into his office with some paperwork. He seemed alright to me."

"Nah," Ste shakes his head, defiant, "It's all an act, gotta be. I live in his house, people are themselves where they're comfortable. He's rude and he's got a bit of a temper on him; not saying I haven't, but he doesn't even try to be nice to me."

Amy frowns a little, before doing a little nod with her head like she's weighing up options. Ste can practically see the cogs turning in her head; Amy's one of those people that has to have a logical explanation for everyone's behaviour and everything that happens.

"Maybe it's not you, maybe he's just... grumpy, I guess. Have you seen the way he acts around Cheryl?" She asks. Ste nods.

"Yeah, he's alright with her. But she is family, I guess... He spends most of his time in his room, like some sort of moody teenager. Apparently he's into dodgy stuff, what Cheryl said." That makes Amy's frown deepen.

"Well as long as you're not going to get roped into that again," Ste gives her a dirty look and she gives him a stern one in return, before continuing on, "He sounds depressed to me." She comments, looking around for a decent shop to look in.

"Or just a grumpy bastard." Ste mutters, glaring at the floor. Amy tuts, and he doesn't have to look at her to know she's rolling her eyes.

"You never know, Steven. Not everything is black and white. Has Cheryl given you any hints as to why he's so sullen?"

"Sullen?" Ste arches a brow. Amy shakes her head.

"Moody, sad, whatever you wanna call it."

"She said he were on the street for a while and that their dad was... well, she didn't say anything about their dad other than it was 'good riddance' that he's dead." Ste says, Amy humming beside him in acknowledgement.

"Maybe you should ask, if he's bothering you so much. I'm sure Cheryl won't mind putting your mind at ease about whether or not he has a problem with you or if he's just defensive."

Ste snorts, giving her a funny look.

"Yeah right, what's he got to be defensive about? He's filthy rich, he's good looking and he's perfectly confident."

"Not everything is black and white," Amy says again, tapping his nose, "Now c'mon, River Island is a great shop for us to look in."

* * *

By the time he's finished shopping, he has five pairs of skinny jeans, three pairs of bootleg jeans, a pair of chinos, two jumpers, three stylish hoodies, a denim jacket, two nice polo shirts, a few V-necks, some plain t-shirts, another suit, two belts, a new pair of trainers, some converse style pumps and a pair of grey plimsolls, two pairs of desert boots and a pair of panel military boots. He's never been so fashionable in his life; Amy even made him buy some new boxers.

His £150 wasn't enough to cover it, and he ended up having to use his debit card.

Amy insisted on him changing into some of his new clothes and dumping his old ones in the bin; his trainers were falling apart anyway. He feels like a new man, now, clad in black Sid skinny stretch jeans with a grey marl contrast collar polo shirt and his panel military boots.

Amy looks him up and down, whistling lowly.

"Damn, Steven," She smirks, "I think we may have ended things a bit too soon. Wanna try again?" She jokes. Ste blushes and dips his head, cheeks burning. "It's like looking at a new man," She says, smiling brightly as she take his arm and links him, his bags shared between them, "I'm so proud of you. A month ago you were this boy that didn't have a clue about what to do with himself, now you're a well-dressed man sharing an apartment in a posh grove in the nicer end of the village with a respectable job and a decent income."

Ste grins at her and wraps her up in a hug; it's a little awkward, due to the many bags on their arms, but they make it work.

As they're walking out of the shopping centre, he notices he gets some appreciative looks. He colours under the attention, Amy snickering beside him like seeing him embarrassed makes her life better. She stops them, turns to face him, and runs her fingers through his hair, ruffling it up until his fringe is scattered over his forehead and the rest of his hair is a tufty mess on his head.

"There," She smirks, "The sexy bed-head looks good on you, and this shirt really does wonders for contrasting the blue of your eyes."

"Since when did you get all Gok Wan?" Ste asks, quirking an eyebrow. Amy laughs at that, giving him a taunting look.

"I've always been fashionable and you know it, Hay."

* * *

They depart at the centre of the village with promises of meeting up at the weekend with the kids. Ste has an appointment with a therapist from the NHS to do some CBT scheduled for Friday, and Amy wants to hear how it goes when she sees him on the Saturday. Before she leaves, he takes £100 out of his bank account and gives it to her for the kids and the bills. She tells him it's too much, but he insists, and eventually she takes it with a shy smile and a kiss to his cheek. He has £533 left in his account, now, and he takes out another £75 to pay Brendan for his board.

Cheryl says he doesn't have to; Ste knows he should.

He hauls his bags along with him and manages to get into the taxi with them without too much trouble, taking the back seat due to the number of them. The taxi man lifts an eyebrow at him with a smirk on his face when he sees them; it's the same driver from earlier as well.

Ste flushes and scratches his jaw awkwardly.

"New wardrobe," He explains, "Mother of me kids was getting tired of me looking like a chav."

The driver laughs and nods understandingly, and before Ste even realises what's happening he's out of the door and paying for the ride with the promise of meeting up for drinks next weekend and the man's number in his hand. Platonic, of course. Ste isn't into men.

He makes his way over to the flats and finds he can't actually reach his key, so he presses the buzzer to Cheryl's apartment with his nose and prays to God that she's in; he can't see the Audi around and she wasn't in earlier.

Luckily, someone answers.

"Who is it?" Comes a deep, Irish drawl. Ste pales and mentally curses his bad luck. The Audi isn't even there! Why is Brendan still the only one in?

"Er, it's Ste. Can you let me in?" There's an irritable sounding huff on the other end of the intercom.

"You better not have lost your key, Steven," Brendan says, causing Ste to shiver involuntarily at the sound of his name on Brendan's tongue; his first thought is correcting him, that it's just Ste; his second thought is that it's the first time Brendan's addressed him by his name. So far, he's had "council rat", "eejit" and "kid".

"No, I haven't, but I can't reach it in my pocket. Ames took me shopping." Ste doesn't know if he imagines the snort, but he wants to believe he didn't. The thought of being able to make Brendan laugh does pleasant things to Ste's stomach - or unpleasant, depending on which way you look at it: Ste isn't sure.

The buzzer goes off and Ste hears the sound of metal clicking as the main door unlocks. The breathes a sigh of relief and pushes the door open with his shoulder, thankful it's a push door and not a pull.

He takes the elevator, because there's no way in hell that he's going up to the top floor with all these bags, and nearly throws up at the motion of it. He's desperately hungry, and the jolting of the lift does his stomach no favours. He's thankful when the doors open and he can shuffle along to the apartment.

Brendan pulls open the door right as he goes to knock on it, causing him to stumble in. Brendan steps back with no intention of helping him; he narrowly misses falling over.

"Gee, thanks, way to save a guy," Ste snaps, straightening up again. When he looks at Brendan, the man is wide eyed and staring at Ste like he's from another planet. He immediately feels uncomfortable. "Uh..."

Brendan blinks, seeming to snap out of whatever trance he was in. He clears his throat and steps back, shutting the door behind Ste as he walks in, avoiding looking at Brendan - who is shirtless, by the way, and Ste really did not need that image in his head. Seriously, it's like he's frickin' photoshopped, all hard muscles and scatters of dark hair; even the scars and tattoos are tempting.

"You... got a new wardrobe." Brendan states, still looking at Ste when the younger man looks up at him again. He sets his bags next to the sofa and nods, swallowing thickly. Brendan's in sweatpants that are slung low on his hips with a pair of trainers on. He's been working out, if the thin sheen of sweat on his chest is anything to go by, and Ste really should not be feeling like this.

"Yeah," Ste says awkwardly, keeping his eyes very pointedly on Brendan's face. "I've been an adult for a good three years now," He says, "Time I started behaving like one."

Brendan nods silently, the two of them still looking at each other intently, and it's in that moment that Cheryl and Nate come barging in. Ste jumps a mile and finds himself pleased to notice that Brendan startles, too. Cheryl looks between them while Nate gives Ste a knowing smirk - what he knows, Ste has no idea, but he doesn't like it.

Brendan gives Cheryl a nod and retreats to his room, back to ignoring Ste's existence once again. Ste doesn't know why that pisses him off a little; or maybe he does, but he doesn't want to admit it.

Nate whistles, low and suggestive.

"Whew," He says, smirking, "Could've cut the sexual tension with a knife."

Ste frowns and glares at him.

"Er I don't think so, mate." He snaps. Cheryl's looking at him funnily, before she shakes her head and laughs, coming over to him and ruffling his hair much like Amy did in the shopping centre earlier today.

"Don't be daft, Nate," She chuckles, "Ste here is straight." He notices that she doesn't say Brendan is as well. Nate scoffs, amused, and carries some shopping bags into the kitchen, stocking up the cupboards and fridge freezer again.

"And... Brendan isn't?" Ste asks Cheryl. She snorts and quirks an eyebrow.

"Do you see him bringing any girls home?" She asks.

"Well no, but I ain't seen him bringing any men home, either." Ste states, defiant. If anything, the lack of sexual partners/romantic partners in Brendan's life would leave Ste to believe he either hooks up with people in shady motels or alleyways, or he's too anti-social for a relationship.

Cheryl chuckles and shakes her head.

"No, Ste. He's not exactly out and proud, not by a long shot, but he most certainly doesn't like women. It's why he and his wife divorced."

Ste raises his eyebrows at this. Brendan is divorced? He finds himself wondering if it ended well, how his wife reacted. He knows that Cheryl and her family are Catholics; he wonders if Brendan's wife was too, if she had any issues with it.

"How did that end?" Ste asks, taking a seat on the sofa next to Cheryl. She frowns a little.

"Badly, at first. But I think it was less of a 'I can't believe you're gay, you're going to rot in hell, I hate you now' reaction, and more of a 'I can't believe we've been married for four years, have two kids together, and now you tell me you've been living in denial the whole time and you actually fancy men' sort of reaction."

"Brendan's got kids?" Ste asks, eyes wide. Cheryl nods, smiling.

"Two boys, Declan and Paddy. Deccy is five and Paddy is two. They're coming down to stay for a week on Friday; it'll be Spring break," She explains, obviously excited to see her nephews.

"So... why isn't Brendan out and proud?" Ste asks, "You, Nate, his ex and his kids obviously accept it."

Cheryl hesitates for a moment, looks at Ste like she's assessing him.

"Our da'..." She says, "He was a... very homophobic man, to say the least. He wasn't a good man, not to Brendan. It left him with some issues." Ste nods understandingly. Terry was homophobic, too; and Ste wasn't even gay.  _Isn't_ even gay. At least, he doesn't think so.

"There's a horrible back story there, isn't there?" Ste asks. Cheryl nods sadly.

"Like you wouldn't believe." She sighs. Ste nods slowly, frowning.

"Is that why Brendan is a dick all the time? Or does he just have something against me?" He asks. Cheryl tips her head back and laughs, loud and carefree.

"Oh, love," She smiles, shaking her head at him. She places her hand on his knee and gives it a little squeeze, "Brendan isn't a dick, he just has a bad reaction to new people. He'll ease up eventually, just give it some time. He's not very good at sharing his space, he's extremely awkward underneath the swagger and confidence, and he wouldn't know how to start a conversation to save his life. You just have to get used to him, and let him get used to you."

Ste huffs, rolling his eyes.

"Kind of hard to do when he's either cooped up in his room or he's out, ain't it."

Cheryl gives his knee another squeeze, smiling widely at him, before pushing up from the sofa.

"Don't forget you've got work in half an hour, Ste!" She calls as she wanders into her bedroom.

Shit, Ste thinks. She let him have the morning off and most of the afternoon, but it's half past four now and he's supposed to be in the kitchen by five. He bolts up, dragging the bags into his bedroom with him and dumping them unceremoniously at the foot of his bed and deciding he'll put them away later. He quickly changes into his chef's whites before washing his face and putting on some more deodorant, glad he showered this morning.

"Bye!" He yells, running out of the door, the sound of Nate's laughter following him into the hallway.

He's still starving, but he'll just have to wait until he gets a moment to himself to eat. It's going to be torture, working with food and knowing he can't eat any of it. He hopes he'll survive the rest of his shift without collapsing.

* * *

Ste works until closing time, 11 PM, so the two hours over time will take off from the hours he'll have to make up during the rest of the week for having over half a shift off to go shopping with his friend.

He's exhausted by the time he finishes and he didn't get the chance to eat, so he's no longer hungry, just empty and ready to sleep himself into a coma. Cheryl popped by ten minutes ago, ready with the keys to lock up, and she's in her office at the moment; something to do with counting up the profit and sorting out wages and marking down employees' hours.

She graciously lies about Ste working three hours overtime so he has less to hours to make up - he doesn't bother protesting.

They flick switches and turn out the lights together, locking up the kitchen and the office before turning off the finally set of lights in the main dining area and stepping outside. Cheryl locks the main doors.

The night is cool and clear; the sky is full of stars, not a cloud in sight, and there's very few people around since it's a school night. It's silent and relaxing in a way Ste didn't think Hollyoaks could be.

Brendan's there, leaning up against his Audi in a tight leather jacket and even tighter jeans. He looks sinful and so, so beautiful; standing there with his head tipped up towards the sky, the long, lean expanse of his throat bared and the perpetual stubble scattered along the sharp cut of his jaw. There's a gentle breeze playing with the soft strands of his hair, no gel in it today, flat and messy, and the glare of the street lamps make the blue of his eyes glisten enigmatically.

Ste kind of hates him. He doesn't want to want him, and it does funny things to his head.

Cheryl links onto him as they take the short few steps towards the car, Brendan looking down at them and swinging the car keys around a long finger.

"Ready to go?" He asks, voice a quiet rumble against the vacuum of the night. Cheryl smiles at Ste, nodding her head.

"Think this one's about to pass out, Bren." She says, voice almost a whisper.

It's true. His head feels light and fuzzy, and everything is sort of distant. His body seems to hum with sleep, and his eyes keep fluttering shut before he blinks them open again. He clambers into the back seat, Cheryl in the front, and the last thing he hears is the rumble of the engine kicking into life and breaking the silence.

He's vaguely aware of the car tilting up onto a kerb, before being cradled in strong arms, his cheek pressed half and half against a strong shoulder and a solid chest. Whoever it is smells really good, like soap and aftershave and something warm, inviting; he snuggles into it and inhales the scent.


	4. Chapter 4

Ste wakes up the next morning with a face full of pillow. He snuffles and turns his face away, taking a deep breath, and slaps his hand around on the cabinet 'til he finds his phone to turn off the alarm. He pushes himself up and notes that his bags have disappeared. That's odd.

Pushing out of bed, he gets up and strolls over to the wardrobe. Sure enough, his shirts, jackets and hoodies are hung up, his jeans are folded into the drawers underneath, and his shoes line the bottom of the wardrobe. His belts are hung over a hanger, and his underwear and old tracksuits are in the drawer underneath his jeans drawer.

Cheryl must have done it, he decides. He's grateful.

It's Thursday, and he realises that tomorrow Brendan's kids will be coming over and he'll have his appointment. He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, before scratching idly at his chest. It's then that he notices he's only in his boxers, and his chef whites have been washed, dried and hung up on a hanger on his door.

Okay, really, he's not sure what he should feel about that - grateful or uncomfortable? Did she really have to undress him in his sleep? He's got another set of chef whites.

He shakes his head and grabs a towel from the pile resting on the computer desk and wanders into his en suite; it's smaller than the main bathroom, but after last time he doesn't want to be walked in on again. He could lock the door, but he really doesn't trust that something stupid won't happen, like he won't turn the lock far enough, or it'll be broken, and Brendan will come barging in anyway and he'll be left standing there awkwardly as Brendan cusses him out.

He showers, brushes his teeth, comes out and dresses into his chef whites, and then he's cooking breakfast at 9 O'clock for everyone. He's got an hour until work, and he decides he'll do another two hours over time tonight. That'll leave him with two hours left to make up instead of three, thanks to Cheryl's generous tampering.

It might not seem like a lot, but it is. It really is.

He makes a full English: bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, mushrooms, hash browns, the whole lot; and this time, when Cheryl and Nate are saying their thanks and taking their plates, Brendan comes to join them for breakfast too.

He doesn't say anything, barely nods in acknowledgement; but he does sit at the table with everyone. Cheryl looks shell-shocked; Nate just smirks.

He's dressed in a suit today, no tie as usual, the top buttons of his shirt undone, the open V just low enough to tempt. His hair is gelled again and his stubble has been trimmed, still slightly thicker over his top lip.

They eat in comfortable silence, 'til Ste says, "Thanks for putting my clothes away, Cheryl. Would of taken me ages, that," and Cheryl looks at him like he's grown another head.

"I haven't put your clothes away," She's got an amused frown on her face, "I might be generous but I'm not  _that_ generous," She snorts, "I wouldn't have done that. I can barely put away my own clothes." Ste tilts his head.

"Well who did then?"

Brendan stands up suddenly and puts his plate on the counter, food half eaten, and leaves without another word. Nate chuckles under his breath and Cheryl's got a twinkle in her eye.

"Must have been our Brendan, after he put you to bed last night," She grins, and Ste is suddenly filled with the memory of strong arms and muscles, a warm scent and a hard chest, flushes under the realisation, ignores Nate choking down his laughter in his orange juice, the smug git, "Told you he'd warm up to you." Cheryl looks pleased as fucking punch, the cat that got the cream, and it makes Ste's skin crawl.

"Err... right," He says, finishing off his food quickly, "Best be off to work. I'll see you at closing time." He feels wrong-footed and the air is suddenly clogged, too thick and warm, feels like he's choking with it.

He leaves in a hurry, flustered and irritated for reasons he can't explain. Work has never seemed more appealing than it does right now. He doesn't want to think anymore; he just wants to focus on other things. More important things.

* * *

Spring has settled in, finally, and the trees are beginning to ripen pink with blossom. Ste works consistently, works over his break, too, ignores the concerned glances from his fellow kitchen staff and focuses on making dishes with their seasonable vegetables. They don't ask questions, nor do they say anything; they listen to him when he tells them to do something and he's glad that they're smart enough not to question him. He's the head chef, and he has a job to do. He doesn't want to think about Brendan, or how Brendan makes him feel, or how Brendan might feel about him. The whole hot and cold thing is giving him some kind of emotional whiplash and he's not interested in exploring it, just wants to pretend like the very thought of him doesn't leave him feeling gut-punched.

Of course, it's never that easy; and come 7 O'clock Brendan is strolling into the kitchen. Ste frowns at him.

"You don't work here," He says, tone snappish, "Cheryl doesn't get here 'til half ten and when she does, she's in the office."

Brendan considers him for a long moment, the other workers not so subtly watching the exchange under the pretense of paying full attention to their work.

"I don't work here, you're right," Brendan says calmly, nothing in his expression to give him away; it makes Ste's blood boil, how hard this man is to read, "But Cheryl doesn't own this place, I do. She's the manager. I came to see how you're doing."

Ste bites his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything stupid. He wonders just how many places Brendan owns, exactly, if everything in Cheryl's life is funded by her brother.

"Why would you want to see how I'm doing?" He grumbles, glaring down at the asparagus he's chopping. Brendan doesn't answer, and then suddenly he's right up next to Ste and he startles him so much he nearly cuts himself. He scowls up at Brendan, who has the decency to look at least a little apologetic.

"You were over-worked last night," Brendan says finally, after what feels like an eternity, "And a co-worker called and said you worked through your break. You didn't eat yesterday either, you're not being healthy."

Ste can feel his face heating up; he feels angry, like he's being ambushed. He looks over his shoulder at the workers, who are pointedly ignoring him but all looking sheepish.

"How do you know whether I did or didn't eat yesterday? And besides, you make it sound like I've got a problem. I don't."

"Just looking out for ye, Steven," Brendan drawls, sounding sarcastic and bored, and it makes Ste wonder how much trouble he'd get in for using the knife in his hand to chop Brendan instead of vegetables, "Wouldn't be much use to us if you're too ill to work, would you?"

Ste puts the knife down and grips the end of the counter tightly, breathing heavily through his nose and baring his teeth a little.

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10._

_1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10._

But his previous anger therapy isn't working, and he can only hope that CBT tomorrow will be better.

Suddenly there's hands on his, and he jolts at the contact. He's been turned around, and when he looks up again Brendan's there, looking down at him, concerned, holding Ste's fists gently. Ste looks down at the point of contact. Brendan's hands are large and his fingers are long and thick, consuming the clenched balls of Ste's fists that look so tiny in comparison.

"C'mon, someone else can do that for you, you're having a break." Brendan says, and it's like his touch has drawn all the anger out of Ste. He's resigned now, quiet inside, and he lets Brendan guide him out of the kitchen silently. They make their way outside, where Brendan's Audi sits patiently at the kerb. He opens the passenger door for Ste, shuts it once he's inside, and when he slides into the driver's side and turns the engine on, the radio comes on and music dissolves the tense atmosphere. He doesn't know the song, but it's chilling and it tugs something inside Ste, makes him shiver, the lyrics passionate and the singer's voice eerily good.

_As you wake, does he smother you in kisses, long and true?_

_Does he even think to bother?_

_And at night, under covers, as he's sliding into you,_

_Does it set your sweat on fire?_

He swallows, and when he glances over at Brendan, the man's already looking at Ste. Then he turns away sharply and changes gear, pressing down on the accelerator and turning round to drive off somewhere. He doesn't know where Brendan's taking him; he doesn't ask.

_Want you so bad I can taste it,_

_But you're nowhere to be found,_

_I'll take a drug to replace it,_

_Or put me in the ground._

The ride is silent save for the music, but the lyrics put thoughts into his head that he isn't sure he wants there. The song doesn't sound like it's being sung about a woman either, despite that being a man's voice. It makes Ste feels uncomfortable at the same time as filling him with some sort of pleasant warmth; the song, quite obviously, is about a man's love having sex with someone else.

He's somewhere between being glad it's over and wanting to put it back on when the song finishes.

"What song was that?" Ste asks, thankful his voice doesn't give away how he's feeling. Brendan glances at him as he turns a corner before he answers.

"Exit Wounds," He says simply, "By a band called Placebo."

Ste makes a mental note of that; he thinks he could probably like a lot of their stuff, if it's like this. It's really similar to his taste in music, like Radiohead and The Black Keys.

Another song comes on, and it's very obviously the same band. The singer has a very distinctive voice. Brendan sings along absently; he's not the best singer, but there's something about his voice that Ste likes. It's husky and low, feels like a physical caress.

"Look me in the eye, say that again, take me to your chest and let me in, give me mouth to mouth and make amends, knock me off my feet like heroin, no need to disguise or to pretend, don't misconstrue and don't misapprehend, there's nothing left, no fortress to defend, and tonight's the night that we begin the end."

Ste finds himself watching Brendan, listening attentively, and if Brendan notices then he doesn't show it, doesn't let it stop him. He carries on, and the song finishes as they pull up at a pub somewhere in the woodlands not far away from the flats.

"Cheryl told me 'bout this place." Ste says mildly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Brendan nods, says, "It's good," before getting out of the car and coming round to Ste's side, opening the door for him.

"Such a gentleman." Ste taunts, flapping a hand over his heart exaggeratedly. Brendan rolls his eyes and locks the car, pushing Ste along to the entrance.

"That mouth will get you in a lot of trouble one of these days." Brendan says, voice low. Ste shivers, can't help himself when he says, "Better be a good boy then, hadn't I?"

Brendan doesn't say anything to that, but he's got this dark look in his eyes, something deep and intense.

They remain silent, except for when they order their food and drink. Brendan sits next to him, staring out into space with a pint of beer clutched tightly in his hand. There's no expression on his face; he got this distant look in his eyes, like he's somewhere else.

Ste takes the time to study him, to really look. This close, he's even more painfully attractive. He's got long sooty lashes, something which Ste had failed to notice before, and his cheekbones are cut sharply like his jaw. There's a downward curve to his mouth that makes Ste think of Hugh Grant, and his lips look pink and soft. He finds himself wondering how they'd feel against his own.

It's crazy, how Brendan is making him feel. There's no use in denying it anymore - he's desperately attracted to the man, and it doesn't sit right with him. He shouldn't be attracted to this man at all, shouldn't fancy him or be looking at him in that way. He hasn't got anything against gays - he's sitting next to a gay man, for crying out loud! - but it's just something he never has been, never thought he would be.

With Callum, he'd been young, only sixteen, and every teenager gets confused at some point, don't they? It'd been lonely, in young offenders; but then Callum came along, buddied up to him and cracked a nice smile that suited his boyish features and made his eyes light up, made Ste's world more fun, more vibrant, the days easier to get through.

They'd almost kissed.

But that had been it. Nothing had come of it, and a week later Ste was being released into the world again and he'd gone straight back to Amy. His world had returned to nappies and finishing school and being glared at by Mike Barnes.

He didn't see Callum again until Lucas was born two years later, and now Callum lives with his girlfriend in a nice house in Camden, London, with a respectable job and twin boys. Ste sees him once every two or three months, if he's lucky, and they text sometimes.

This, however, is entirely different. Because Ste knows what these feelings are now, he's familiar with the urges, the way his stomach flips; except all of it's much more intense, because this is Brendan. Brendan is a man, and so is Ste. They're adults. Brendan has a strong body that could ruin him, something Ste has thought about a couple of times, and he owns businesses and has a flashy car and he's going to be in Ste's life for a long time, sharing the same space as him, breathing the same air.

And it's not fair, Ste thinks. Not at all. He shouldn't be so enraptured by a man he barely knows, that he met sixteen days ago and didn't even see for fourteen of those. But he is. There's something stupidly captivating about a man like Brendan Brady: tall, dark and handsome, shrouded by mystery and potential danger with a dark past.

Their food comes, and Brendan is snapped out of whatever trance he was in. Ste hastily looks up towards the waiter and smiles politely, thanking him for the food. He's ordered Cedar-plank salmon with a dressed salad and it tastes delicious. Brendan has medium-rare steak and chips with a side salad.

And since acknowledging that he barely knows anything about this man, Ste's suddenly itching to learn more, to ask questions, to discover something more about this fascinating being next to him.

"So... you own the club and the restaurant, right?" Brendan gives Ste a long look, eyebrow quirked, before nodding silently. "Do you own any other businesses?" He asks, to which Brendan nods again. "Oh, c'mon, you were talking earlier. I know for a fact now that you're capable of forming sentences."

Brendan actually smirks at that, before it's wiped off his face again as he sits up straighter and sighs.

"I own a bar in Dublin and I have a stake in a night club in Liverpool. I'm also currently obtaining ownership of the student bar as a side thing to the club here to bring more profit in." Ste nods, eyes wide in wonderment.

"Wow," He says, "Four businesses and still going. That's impressive, that."

Brendan gives him a smug look before he returns to his food. It's silent for a few moments more, until...

"What were you reading yesterday?" He asks, still curious.

"Something." Brendan says simply. Ste frowns at that.

"Would never have guessed," He grouches, "Don't be a spoil sport."

"Why does it matter what I was reading, Steven?"

"Why do you have to be an asshole? And it's Ste, by the way."

Brendan's eyes dance with mirth, a smile quite obviously being held back.

"Steven's better." Brendan says with a sense of finality that Ste finds himself unable to challenge. "C'mon," He says, "Let's get you back to work."

Ste hadn't even realised they'd both finished, too engrossed in their back-and-forth. Funny, really, how everything else just seems to fade into the background whenever Brendan is around.

* * *

The ride back is uneventful, the two of them sitting in silently while the Placebo mix CD continues. This time, the song is more upbeat.

_We almost made it, but making it is overrated._

Ste finds himself wondering what other music Brendan listens to, if it's all alternative rock and post-punk revival with interesting lyrics riddled with deeper meaning. He glances over at Brendan a couple of times, and each time Brendan's either bobbing his head or he's drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. It's endearing, is what it is.

When they get back, it's five past eight, and the hour has gone by so fast that Ste almost finds himself complaining. But he stops himself. Because he and Brendan aren't friends; they'd had a brief couple of conversations, and Brendan had only been there because he'd been checking up on his business, and he'd only taken Ste to dinner because Ste had been over-worked to the point of snapping. That just means that Brendan isn't 100% asshole, just 90.

Brendan looks over at Ste expectantly, and he realises, belatedly, that he should be getting out of the car now.

"Thanks." He says quickly, undoing his seat belt and ducking out of the car clumsily, darting into the restaurant and resisting the urge to pat himself on the back for not looking back at Brendan once.

* * *

Friday's day off is marked down as medical, so he still only has an hour left to make up. Brendan disappeared early morning to meet his kids at the airport, and Cheryl and Nate are preoccupied with their businesses.

After his shower, he changes into tight bootleg jeans and a white V-neck with his denim jacket. He slips on his desert boots and styles his hair into the bed-head look Amy had given him yesterday.

Taking a deep breath, he forces himself out of the door and into a taxi before he can wriggle out of it. He gives the taxi driver the address to the clinic and looks down at his hands, wringing his fingers in his lap nervously. He doesn't meet the driver's eyes, doesn't want to see if he's giving him a judgemental or pitying look.

* * *

The room isn't like what he expected.

Before, in anger management at the prison, the room had been sterile white like a doctor's office, with a long sofa inmates could lie on, or they could opt to sit on the chair in front of the therapist's desk.

Here, however, it's like a living room. There's two red fabric sofas that are fairly bouncy and a lot cushioned, and three single seaters of the same colour. The carpet is a dull orange colour and the walls are a shade like pale peach.

He can't figure out if the setting makes him more comfortable or less. On one hand, it makes it a lot less clinical and he feels less like a patient; on the other hand, it's like they're trying too hard and it just reminds him how much of a patient he really is. It's a confusing feeling, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

The window has blinds that are shut, and there's a table with some toys on it. It reminds him that kids come here, too. There kids and teenagers that attend some support group called Connect -CAMHS & First Steps that's part of the NHS. If kids can do it, so can Ste.

Then again, kids have a lot less inhibitions.

Then again: teenagers. If teenagers can do it - self-conscious, hormonal teenagers with their perpetual teenage angst - then so can Ste.

His therapist's name is Lucy, and she qualified only last year, as the lady who introduced him to the place explained. She's a couple of years older than Ste, with light blonde hair and pretty blue eyes. She reminds Ste of Amy, and it relaxes him a little bit. She's friendly, too.

"Alright, Steven Hay, yes?" She smiles.

"Just Ste." He manages, clearing his throat awkwardly and shifting on the sofa.

"Okay Ste," She smiles. "My name is Lucy, as I'm sure Sue told you. I just want to make sure you know what CBT is, before we get started."

Ste shrugs. Something behaviour therapy, isn't it? He isn't sure what it does, exactly.

"Okay," Lucy nods, and she isn't at all bothered by Ste's rather anti-social attitude, it seems, "So, CBT isn't your usual therapy. It stands for Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. It's a talking therapy and it aims to help you manage your problems through changing the way you think and behave. It helps you understand your problems, and we'll go through several exercises. You're here for anger management issues, correct?" Ste nods and she continues. "Okay Ste, we'll be looking at breaking down your anger into different stages. Triggers, emotions, thought processes, all the things that lead up to that outburst. It may feel as though there's no cycle, that something happens and you just get angry, but as you'll find out later on - there's always a cycle. You'll be given some sheets on what anger is, exactly, the different emotions, and the physical affects of anger, too: palpitations, stomach knotting, increased temperature, all those things."

Ste nods. That sounds easy enough: exploring the different ways anger is provoked and the different ways it causes people to react, looking through sheets about what anger is. The part that sounds hardest is talking, but he's done it before so he's confident he can do it again.

"I'd like to let you know, as well, that just because we're starting on anger management, it doesn't mean our sessions are limited to that one area. If you have any other problems, we can work on those, too. CBT is a very flexible form of therapy, since it looks at what's best for you and it's based entirely around personal experience. Since you're an adult, I won't be able to take any legal steps with any problems you may experience without your consent if I feel you're in danger. If you were nineteen or under, it'd be different, but you're not, so I trust that you'll make decisions based on what's right for you, should such matters come up."

"What sort of danger are we talking about?" Ste asks, because he's curious to know what danger means in these places.

"If you were a minor and I felt, or you'd told me, that you were under any sort of threat, were experiencing any sort of abuse, or you were harming yourself or having thoughts of harming yourself in any way, then as your therapist I would be inclined to take legal action immediately. Since you're an adult, however, I can only take legal action with your consent, unless the issue is extreme."

Ste nods slowly, taking in the information. So far, CBT hasn't turned out to be what he was expecting at all. It's much better, and Lucy is thorough and kind.

"We'll just do some talking for today, no sheets or exercises. The first six weeks is assessment, really, although we can still do some basic therapy: how things make you feel, why you think they make you feel that way, all that sort of stuff. I'll be taking the notes the whole time, and it's entirely up to you how much you reveal about yourself or your life. It doesn't matter what you've done in the past or what you've had done to you, I'm not here to judge and I won't be telling anybody. I already have information on your criminal record, so don't feel like you have to hide that part of your life. Time in prison - young offenders or not - will have impacted on your life hugely, so don't feel ashamed. I'm here to help you. This is entirely confidential; the only person who will see these notes are myself and my manager. Sue, the lady who introduced you, is the manager. You're in good hands, Ste. What's said in this room goes no further myself and my manager. None of the other therapists will know who you are or why you're here, no one attending therapy will know. Nothing leaves this building. Are you confident in that?"

"Yeah." Ste nods, something like relief settling his nerves. He'd been pumped up with nervous adrenaline and angst when he'd first got here, but since going over what CBT is and the confidentiality of it all, he feels a lot more relaxed.

"Okay, so, we have forty-five minutes of the session left. Would you like to start talking?" She asks. Ste hesitates for a moment, before nodding slowly.

"Where do I start?" He asks, causing Lucy to break out in a beaming smile. She laughs softly; it must be a question she's asked a lot.

"Ah yes, it can be a bit overwhelming, can't it?" She smiles, and Ste nods in agreement, "How about you tell me why you're here."

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before opening his mouth ready to speak. He stutters for a moment.

"Uh, do I have to look at you?" Lucy shakes her head, clipboard and pen ready in her hands. He nods and focusses on the half-destructed lego construction on the table. It makes him think of Lucas, causing a pang of something heavy in his stomach.

He misses his kids.

"Okay... well, my ex girlfriend and I were living together with Leah and Lucas, our kids. Leah isn't mine by blood, but she's still my little girl, y'know? And we didn't have enough money for the bills. I couldn't find a job 'cause of my record and there weren't many openings, so I went out to steal some food. But Amy came in the shop and caught me before I could, and then when we got back we had a massive row about how I broke my promise and I was putting the kids in danger, getting involved with illegal things like that, so she kicked me out.

"I spent three or four days on the street, then my friend Cheryl found out and took me in to live with her brother and husband. She's got me back on my feet, y'know? I saw Amy the next day or something like that, and she said the only way she'd let me see the kids again is if I cleaned up my act and got myself a job, din'she, so I did. Cheryl gave me the job of head chef at her restaurant and then Amy took me shopping for more respectable clothes instead of the usual tracksuit. She wanted me to get help with my anger and stuff, so she told me I've got to start some sort of therapy before I can see the kids and she gave me some leaflets and phone numbers, and, yeah, that's how I ended up here."

Lucy nods, and it's another moment before she stops writing and looks up from her clipboard to smile at Ste.

"Okay, so you're here to get help in order to be a better role model for your kids and to be able to see them. Well, Ste, I think it's great you've got motivation like that, really, I do. Most of the people who come here for things like anger management therapy don't even have a motivation and are just here because they were referred. It makes the job more than a little infuriating." She grins at Ste and Ste finds himself smiling back, amused and... maybe pleased, in a shy kind of way, about the compliment. "So... a lot of people with anger management issues have violent pasts. Have you ever been violent, or been on the receiving end of violence in the past, that's been motivated by anger?"

Ste nods, feeling more tense than before. His stomach knots a little.

"I... I used to hit Amy, sometimes... like, before prison and it happened twice after. I didn't... like, I didn't want to, honestly, and I always felt did guilty afterwards. It was just, like, I couldn't control it. And she didn't deserve it at all..." Lucy nods encouragingly, silently urging him to carry on. "I don't anymore, like, obviously... Um, when I was a kid, like, until I was nineteen... well, my mum is an alcoholic, you see, and I don't see her anymore. She had... or has, I don't know anymore... she had this husband called Terry, right? Like, he's me step-dad. And he would, y'know, he'd knock me about. He used to beat me up all the time. It happened less as I got older and I ran away at fifteen and got the flat with Amy when I were sixteen... but he would find me sometimes. We was in a hotel once, and Amy's dad told him where we were. He didn't know, like, he didn't know what Terry did... but yeah, our Leah was just a baby then, and he barged in and beat me up in front of everyone. I was so angry and- and embarrassed, y'know? It just... I'd take it out on Amy, or a wall or something."

When he risks a glance at Lucy, she's not looking at him sympathetically or pityingly. Nothing of the sort. She just nods her head, jots down another couple of notes, and then looks up at him.

"And how did it feel, while you were taking it out on Amy?" She asks, "Did you feel... powerful? Better? Like you were in control?"

Yeah, he thinks. That's exactly how he felt.

"Yeah... it felt like... like I wasn't everything Terry said I was, y'know? Like I wasn't some faggot, or weak, or pathetic, like I was actually in control. Like I was powerful. I got off on the fact that she was scared of me. And then afterwards, I'd hate myself for it. I'd put myself down and I'd drink and I'd punch things."

"You still feel the guilt, don't you?" Lucy tilts her head, a small understanding smile on her face.

He nods, glaring down at the floor.

"Yeah," He says on a rush of breath, voice quiet and shaky, "Everyday. I'll never forgive myself."


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of a familiar young voice has Brendan snapping his head up.

"Daddy!" Declan screams. Eileen is behind him, pulling along the kids' suitcases with a tired looking Paddy toddling sleepily beside her, holding the sleeve of her coat for guidance since her hands are full. Her backpack is falling off her shoulder, and she looks like she's struggling to keep her balance.

Brendan smiles wide, bending down to scoop Declan up into his arms when he jumps. The little boy wraps his legs around Brendan's waist, arms tight around his neck, face buried into his shoulder.

"Ah, missed ye, buddy," Brendan sighs, closing his eyes and nuzzling into the crook of his neck, "How are ye?"

"Real good, da'." Declan beams, drawing back to look Brendan in the eye. Brendan pecks his cheek, setting him down again.

"Glad to hear it," He smiles, ruffling his boy's hair. He comes up to Brendan's waist now, must have had a growth spurt in the past three and a half months. "Eileen." He nods when she gets to them, making the effort to smile. She does a little wave and returns the smile, setting the cases by his feet and hauling Paddy into her arms. He's ready for his nap, his eyes are fluttering. She hands him over to Brendan, who cradles him in his arms and smiles fondly when Paddy nuzzles into him and drifts off.

"Ma', can oi go get some sweets from the shop?" Declan asks, holding out a £2 that Eileen must have given him. He can imagine what Declan's face might have been like when she handed over a coin that was both golden and silver and of a different currency; new things fascinate Declan and it's endearing and lovely and Brendan always shows and teaches Declan new things because of it. Eileen nods, telling him, "nothing you can choke on, love," as she runs her fingers through his hair, watching him closely, then, as he bounds off to the shop a couple of metres away.

Brendan sits down on a bench and Eileen joins him.

"How are you?" She asks, eyes flitting over his body, most likely looking for some form of harm.

"I'm doing okay." He says honestly, keeping his voice hushed. He cards his fingers through the short locks of Paddy's dark hair; out of the two of them, Paddy looks the most like his dad, whereas Declan is an even mix between both of his parents. Both boys have their dad's blue eyes, though.

"And does okay mean you're actually okay, or is that code for I stopped taking my tablets and probably shouldn't be around kids?" Eileen asks, quirking an eyebrow. Brendan frowns at her.

"You can ask Cheryl, if you don't believe me," He scowls, "I take them everyday and I haven't had an  _issue_ since that little incident."

She sighs, smiling weakly.

"Okay, okay, I know, I believe you... I'm sorry, it's just- oh, Brendan, you know I worry about ye. After last time, we nearly- we nearly-" Eileen shakes her head, "I just don't want that to happen again. Declan didn't sleep right for weeks, and Paddy couldn't sleep because he was upset by everything going on around him because it confused him so much. He didn't understand, and he still doesn't. Neither of them do. The kids have missed you, alright? I don't want to have to take them home because  _daddy isn't feeling well_. They're looking forward to this. It's their first time out of the country and they're with you. I want the three of you to be okay. More than okay, actually."

Brendan takes her hand in his, leaning forward slightly.

"I know, Eileen," He urges, forcing her to meet his eyes, "I know. I'm getting better, I promise. Ye don't have to worry about the kids, they'll be fine. I love those little boys, yeah? And I know I can be around them; even before, I could. It was hard, but I could do it. So please, just trust me, yeah? I'm not going to put myself at risk because that's putting them at risk, and I don't wanna do that." Eileen gives him a smile, squeezing his hand.

"Okay."

Brendan nods at her.

"Good. Okay, so, plan's still the same, yeah? You stay for two nights, then I bring the kids back at the end of the week and stay for two nights as well," Eileen nods, "Okay. So, here's the thing. Cheryl has taken in a lad from the street. He's living in the guest room now, so we can do this in one of three ways: the boys stay in the other guest bedroom and you sleep in my room with me, I can take the sofa or sleep in the bed if you don't mind sharing, or you sleep in the guest bedroom with one of the boys and I sleep with the other, or you can have the sofa and the boys will have the guest room."

Eileen arches an eyebrow at this.

"She's taken a lad in from the street?" She questions. Brendan sighs and nods.

"Some Steven kid. Okay lad, really. Got himself cleaned up a bit, works as the head chef in the restaurant now. Got a bit of a mouth on him, and as for his sexual orientation I can't tell if he's gay, bisexual or a sassy straight man, so... enjoy that, I guess. It's pretty confusing," Brendan shrugs, "Try not to kill him. He's got a laugh like a donkey that I promise will irritate the life out of you - I've thought about smothering him a couple of times, myself." Eileen actually laughs at that, shaking her head.

"Oh, Brendan," She snickers, "Don't tell me you've got a crush on him."

Brendan gives her a pointed scowl, which she's always called his bitch face.

"Eileen, we're adults, we're not in high school. Crush? Seriously? Secondly, no. Not in a million years."

Eileen holds her hands up defensively; Brendan just rolls his eyes.

"I'll sleep in the guest room with Paddy, make sure he doesn't fall out of bed. You can sleep with Declan."

Brendan nods and stands up, waving Declan over from the shop.

"Right, c'mon then, let's go." She says, taking one of the bags. Brendan takes the other in his free hand, keeping Paddy steady on his hip. Declan joins them again with a bag of toffee pieces and a large refresher.

"You're not eating any of that before your Tea, Declan." Eileen scolds, taking the sweets from him and putting them in her coat pockets. Declan's bottom lip wobbles.

"But... but..." He looks up at Brendan then, "Daaaaaa'," He pleads, trying his best puppy dog expression. Brendan snorts, arching an eyebrow; it's a classic parent look, one that questions their child's intelligence, tactic and realism all at once. It's awfully judgemental.

"Not a chance, kiddo," He says, shaking his head with a smirk. Declan's eyes tear up, all hell threatening to break loose. "You can eat them after tea."

"But-"

"No is no and don't let me hear another word about it or you'll be going to bed early tonight." Brendan's voice is stern and leaves no room for argument, and apparently Declan learned some self-preservation since Brendan last saw him.

He shuts up about the sweets, not a tear in sight nor a sob heard, and promptly moves on to babbling away vehemently about football.

"Did ye ever play football when ye were little da'?" Declan asks, eyes shining brightly. Brendan swallows thickly and risks a glance at Eileen; she's watching him carefully.

No, no he didn't play football. His days consisted of school, homework, spending time with Cheryl, reading or drawing if he got a moment to himself, and ducking out of his father's way. He wasn't allowed out until he was fourteen, and by that time he had no interest in football. It was all about who could hold their alcohol and running away from security guards and cops - because petty vandalism and shop lifting was how you earned your respect back then, in the small and beautiful city that was Dublin.

"Nah, Deccy," He says, "I prefered reading and drawing. I wasn't allowed outside unless I had school or we were going out with family, until I was fourteen."

Declan's eyes are wide and curious at that. Of course, Brendan's answer apparently opened a flood gate to more questions about his childhood.

"But how did you make friends?"

"I talked to them at school."

"Did you go to my school?"

"Yes, Deccy."

"Did Mrs. Thomas teach you, too?"

"No. Mrs. Thomas wasn't there when I was at school."

"Who teached you?"

" _Taught,_  Deccy. And my teacher was a man named Mr. Nolen, your aunt Lynsey's father."

"Were you smart? My teacher says I'm smart. Smartest in the class! But I'm not allowed to tell the other kids."

"Yes, Deccy, I was smart. And your teacher is right; don't brag."

"Did your daddy come to school plays like you do with me?"

Brendan pauses at that one, but quickly regains his composure.

"Yeah," He lies, "Of course he did. That's what daddies do."

* * *

Ste's lying on the sofa watching re-runs of The Simpsons when the front door opens. He looks up to see Brendan come in with a toddler in his arms, and a little boy at his side, followed by a woman who looks around the same age as Brendan.

The little boy's hair is a dark, sandy blonde. His eyes are bright blue and his skin is pale like Brendan, but his jaw is a little more rounded and his nose a little thicker like the woman. He's curious and buzzing with energy, taking off to explore the place immediately.

The woman comes up to Brendan's chest, and she has dark brown hair and pretty features with glossy green eyes. It feels like she's got an edge to her, like she could be a little feisty.

He can't see the toddler's face, just the back of his small body and the pin straight locks of his hair.

It's obvious that these are Brendan's sons, that the woman is his ex-wife.

He sits up, pushing himself into a standing position, and waves awkwardly. Brendan's ex stares at him like he's some sort of strange creature, but she waves back. Ste gets the feeling she doesn't like him very much, despite not knowing him. He doesn't miss the way Brendan rolls his eyes. Is the entire family as judgemental as him? It seems that way - except for Cheryl, because Cheryl is awesome and bubbly and in no way like her brother except for sharing certain features and the being tall thing.

"I'm gonna put Paddy in the bed, Eileen. I've told you about Steven, feel free to... mingle... whatever."

Brendan walks off then, towards the bedroom next to Ste's. He's left standing with the ex-wife of the man he's desperately trying to stop being attracted to, while their oldest son - Declan, Ste remembers - is running loops around the place. Ste realises that it's probably the first time he's seen it, since the Brady's only moved to Chester three months ago.

And thinking about that, he realises he's been living with them for a month and three weeks, there about. Time has flown by. It's May, now, and the Spring days are gradually getting warmer and warmer.

"Hi," Ste smiles, sticking his hand out for Eileen to shake, "My name's Ste. Ignore him, he's weird about names as I'm sure you'll know."

Eileen looks amused whilst still looking like she's figuring out whether she should tolerate him or kill him.

"I do know," She nods in agreement, "Nice to meet ye, Ste." He can't tell if she's genuine or not; he's leaning more towards not, but this woman is as hard to read as Brendan. God, what is it with this side of the family? Cheryl is perfectly carefree and happy. Brendan and co. seem exactly the opposite - even Declan, who's stopped running around excitedly, to assume a position near to his mother so he can stare at Ste, too, with a glare that's shockingly similar to Brendan's; but a lot less scary, him being a child and all that.

He realises he hasn't said anything yet, too caught up in flickering his eyes between the two of them and contemplating possible escape routes.

"Er, yeah, you too." He says, couldn't sound less genuine if he tried. Eileen smirks this time. Oh yes, he should definitely be terrified. Where's Cheryl? He could use someone to hide behind right about now. He'd choose Nate, but honestly? Cheryl seems like she's more than capable of holding her own, Nate seeming a little wet. His first option would be Brendan, if Brendan and he were friends; but, obviously, Brendan is firmly on the  _"let's avoid pissing these people off because I value my life"_ end of the spectrum. Seriously, how is this his life? This entire situation right now is just cruel.

Brendan comes out of the bedroom then; Ste's relief is palpable.

* * *

Somehow, during the course of the night, Ste ends up really getting to know Eileen and Declan. He knows more about them than he knows about Brendan.

He's learned that Eileen is training as a teacher, that she's known Brendan since she was thirteen and they started dating at seventeen; they married three years later and Declan was born a month after Brendan's twenty-first birthday. He's learned that she has an older sister and a younger brother, that she was the maid of honour at Cheryl's wedding, and that her eleven year old nephew plays a lead role's son in a new Irish crime drama.

As for Declan, he now knows that the boy loves nothing more than toffee, football and the colour blue; he's got his own bedroom at home that he's very proud of, and he has a wall with pictures stuck on it that Brendan drew for him. That little titbit of information, in itself, is enough to make Ste's heart swell. The fact that Brendan can draw is one thing: that he draws things for his kids is something entirely in its own league. It's adorable and amazing and Brendan is a better father than Ste imagined him being.

He also now knows that Declan once convinced Brendan to dress up as Superman - he's seen the photo now, the evidence has been right in front of his eyes.

He had been torn between gushing or popping a boner. Tight spandex is not to be worn by Brendan Brady for the good of all that is live and well. It's not fair to the world.

And that's how Ste finds himself sandwiched between Declan and Brendan, watching Superman at 7 O'clock in the evening. Declan had insisted that Ste sit between him and his father and, well, who was he to deny Declan anything?

Paddy had joined them about three hours ago, nicely rested from his nap. He's quiet, and he's hardly said a word since he's been here.

It's not as though Ste's expecting him to explode with conversation like Declan; he's two years old, for God's sake. He doesn't even know  _the word_ conversation yet. But he's been sat in Brendan's lap the whole time, save for Brendan passing him to Eileen once or twice to use the toilet or get drinks and a snack, silently snuggled into Brendan's chest. Don't get him wrong, it's cute; it's just a little odd. Most two-year olds babble nonsense.

Lucas was quieter than other two-year olds as well. Paddy's like Lucas, Ste realises. And Brendan, too. Brendan only ever speaks when it's required of him, or when Ste has become intolerably irritating to him and he snarks him out.

Paddy looks like Brendan, too.

He's so much like his dad that it's a little startling. He's got dark hair the same shade as Brendan's when he grows it out, and these deep blue eyes that have the same sort of electricity about them as Brendan's; his skin tone is exactly the same, the shape of his jaw holds the promise of being sharp and defined when he grows into his body, much like his shoulders, and he's got the same straight and narrow nose. It's almost like he's Brendan's alone, a product of A-Sexual reproduction. The only thing that says he's Eileen's too, really, is the shape and angle of his ears, the wispiness of his eyebrows.

Declan is a lot more balanced, like a 60:40 (Brendan:Eileen).

Once the film has finished, Paddy is asleep again. His lips are parted in a soft 'o', and his breathing as calm and laboured. His face is relaxed, limbs loose, like he couldn't ever be as comfortable as he is when he's sound asleep on his daddy's chest.

Declan's also asleep, expression and posture akin to that of his brother, except instead of being on Brendan's chest he's slumped across Ste's lap.

Ste also, apparently, found comfort in the form of Brendan Brady's limbs. At some point during the film, he managed to end up with his side firmly pressed against Brendan's, his cheek resting on the man's surprisingly comfortable shoulder. It all feels incredibly domestic, like this could be Brendan and Ste with their two kids. The thought makes his gut twist uncomfortably and he barely refrains from darting out of his seat and waking up the kids.

"We should put them to bed," Eileen says, and holy God, Ste had totally forgotten she was in the room, "They'll be knackered if they wake up any time soon, and if they're not in bed then they'll never go back to sleep."

Brendan makes some sort of agreeable noise, and then suddenly he's gone from Ste's side, the vacant space leaving his skin feeling cold all of a sudden, Ste nearly flopping on the sofa at the sudden lack of Brendan to lean all his weight on. Brendan gets Paddy bundled in his arms, and walks over to the other guest room. Ste looks down at Declan, practically comatose in his sleep, then looks back up at Eileen who's watching him closely.

"Do you want me to..?" Eileen smiles at him and nods, saying quietly "please", so he gently scoops Declan into his arms and stands up with him. "Where to?"

"Brendan's room."

Right, okay. He hasn't been in Brendan's room before, but he knows which one it is.

He eases the door open with his elbow, managing to not jostle Declan or wake him up. As soon as he steps in, he's hit with the unmistakable scent of Brendan. It's soap and expensive aftershave and something intoxicating, musky with a hint of whatever laundry detergent he uses. The walls are a silvery grey with a couple of picture frames hung up here and there with either images of some sort of random photography or a piece of art work, and there's a matte black wardrobe next to the door. The bed sits against the middle of the wall, a queen size with a metal frame; its duvet cover and pillow cases are white, but the mattress sheet is jet black. On either side sits a bedside table with drawers: one black, one white. On the white one, there's a lamp and a large lump of an ornament - another art piece Ste doesn't understand; and on the black one, there's an empty crisp packet, a small candle in a red glass container, a couple of magazines, and an open book with a watch on top of it.

It looks minimalist and impersonal, yet well-lived in.

He pulls back the duvet and gently lays Declan on the bed, settling his head on a pillow. He takes the boy's shoes and jeans off, folding the item of clothing and putting it on the chair that sits alone next to the window, tucking a long black curtain behind it. He places the shoes underneath.

Going back over to the bed, he pulls the duvet up and turns the bedside lamp on before switching off the main light and quietly pulling the door closed. When he turns around, he's met with the sight of Brendan right up in his personal space.

"What are ye doing?" Brendan asks, and he's practically snarling. Ste most certainly does not let out a meep. He does not.

"Eileen told me to put Declan to bed," He whispers, and he's not sure that it's entirely because he doesn't want to wake Declan, not when he feels like his voice could betray the sudden spike of fear flooding through his veins, "Seriously, back off a bit, I don't know why you're so pissed all of a sudden."

Brendan seems to relax at that, features smoothing out into a careful blankness. Ste hadn't realised just how tall Brendan is until now; the man's got a good three inches on him at least. Ste's eyes are level with the tip of his nose.

"Okay." Brendan says, and- what? Okay? It sounds like a dismissal almost, but... Well what, exactly, is that supposed to mean? Okay, I believe you? Okay I recognise that I have no reason to be so pissed? Okay I won't get my fist acquainted with your face? Okay you can leave now?

Well, Ste chooses the latter and darts away from Brendan before he says or does something incredibly stupid. What, he isn't sure; but he doesn't doubt for a second that he's very capable of saying or doing  _something_ moronic.

* * *

The adults sit up for a while longer, watching re-runs of Never Mind The Buzzcocks and chatting lamely about this and that. Brendan, somehow, still manages to look tense and guarded even when the things he's saying or doing make him seem relaxed. He's wearing his semi-permanent frown, making Ste want to run the pad of his thumb along his brow and smooth out the lines.

This time, Ste actually learns things about Brendan - even if it is Eileen that's giving him the information. Brendan just sits there stoically the whole time, grumbling and glaring at certain points when he feels embarrassed by what Eileen is saying.

As it turns out, Brendan has various degrees in Fine Arts, Business Studies and Economics. He and Eileen attended the same University together, and she mentions that Brendan is actually very intelligent beneath the brooding and the impulsive nature.

Brendan scowls at that. Ste cracks up.

He also learns that Brendan harbours a (not-so-secret) secret crush on Tom Felton, and that, as a teenager, Brendan was the sulkiest boy Eileen had even known and was commonly talked about in high school, the general script being about how he was so hot but looked like a serial killer.

Brendan scowls at that, too. Ste comments on how he could totally see Brendan being the type to murder someone and get away with it, to which Brendan looks scandalised - or possibly horrified - at the suggestion,  _("No, but right, I reckon you could totally get away with murder. You'd probably smack 'em with a hammer and wrap the body in a carpet before dumping it in a river somewhere and no one would even have a clue it was you!"_ "Yer mind is a scary place, Steven. The fact that you have an entire scenario about how I'd carry out a murder is extremely worrying.") and Eileen just laughs at Brendan's misfortune.

Brendan just looks done. Like, so done. I-can't-believe-I-know-these-ridiculous-awful-people sort of done. Eileen makes a crack at him, telling him he loves her really. Brendan just mutters something about needing new friends.

Ste doesn't know if he's included in that statement, when Brendan says friends, but decides to indulge himself a little and believe that he is.

* * *

Cheryl comes in at nine, followed by Nate at ten, and they sandwich themselves at the end of the sofa, forcing Brendan to move closer to Ste.

His body flares with heat as their sides touch, Brendan's bare arm up against his own, their ankles practically tangled from the way Brendan's stretched to avoid contact with the overly cuddly couple sprawled out next to him.

He fights the blush rising to his cheeks when Brendan tucks his head behind his, even though he knows it's just to avoid Cheryl who's teasing him and trying to ruffle his hair. He catches Nate smirking at him again and, this time, Eileen's in on it too, whatever little ongoing joke Nate's got that seems to involve Ste's discomfort; but fuck them, because Brendan is right up in his personal space and damn it, he is going to enjoy this! He can feel the heat of Brendan's skin against his own, smell the aftershave and the product in his hair, and feel Brendan's breath ghosting over his neck as the man stays hidden away from Cheryl's grabby hands behind Ste's head and growls empty threats at her for if she doesn't leave him alone.

It feels really good, to know that Brendan is comfortable enough with him now to use him as a shield against his sister. Even if it's something short-lived, something that'll be gone by tomorrow morning, he's got this.

And then he snaps himself out of it, because for fuck's sake he does not need this. He does not want this. Or he shouldn't want this, at least. It's fucking crazy, is what it is. And Brendan getting comfortable with him is in no way something that should make him feel all warm and fuzzy; he's not a God damn teenage girl with a crush. Brendan becoming comfortable around him is just pleasing, in the way that finally getting something right or being able to buy something you've looked at for ages is. Ste realises the way his thoughts pan out - Brendan being comfortable around him is right, somehow? Brendan being comfortable with him is like finally being able to have something you've pined after for a long time? - and resists the urge to thump himself. Because that would look weird and make the people in the room who know about his therapy think he has even more issues.

He's so lost in his own head that he doesn't even notice that Cheryl has stopped and Brendan is now just leaning tiredly on his shoulder, much like Ste had leant on him earlier, watching the TV, until the man snorts at something Eileen says about one of the contestants on the show.

He side-eyes Brendan in surprise. Did he really just laugh? Okay, snort; but it's a kind of laugh.

Sometimes he forgets the man is just a regular human being deep down. It's kind of hard to associate Brendan with normality, what with the model-looks, the quiet withdrawn personality, and the odd friends.

Seriously, Warren Fox and Mitzeee Minniver? The image of the three of them hanging out together is a funny one: Warren, stocky thug type with a lisp and more brawn than brains; Mitzeee, barely pushing 5'3" in a pair of heels, a Z-list model with a loud mouth and more clothes than sense; and Brendan, strong and silent type with a tendency to put on a front around others and leer threateningly at people who caused a stir for him, involved with illegal stuff yet absolutely a book-worm with an eye for art.

And yet, they seemed to work out. At least, they did if Amy's running commentary, Brendan's semi-frequent phone calls and Warren's regular visits were anything to go by.

Brendan rarely laughs; but when he does, Warren is usually there. It's something that has Ste feeling irrationally jealous. It shouldn't, but it does. Ste may have hung out with Brendan - or, rather, been in his presence/hung out with Brendan's family while Brendan was there - only enough times for him to be able to count it with his fingers, but he's heard Brendan throughout the near-three months that he's been living here constantly.

He's heard him on the phone in his room; he's heard him laughing with Warren in the living room - which Ste always finds incredibly obnoxious and inconsiderate, because, really, it's always in the early hours of the morning when they do that and do they not have any respect for the people who have to wake up early for work in the morning? - while they've been watching a film or something; he's heard him arguing with Cheryl about ridiculous things that only siblings could find a reason to argue about; he's heard him yelling from various rooms, asking Cheryl or Nate if they've seen an item of clothing or perhaps one of his possessions; he's heard him muttering to himself or snapping when he drops something or knocks himself on a door handle or a table corner; and he's heard him talking quietly with Nate in the early morning over cups of coffee when he hasn't been able to sleep and Nate has had to get up extra early for some business meeting.

So he knows more about Brendan now, somewhat, but before tonight everything he knew about Brendan had been small snippets that he'd managed to draw out of the man - and those experiences had been like pulling teeth, Brendan feeling the same way if the pained expression he'd wear was anything to go by.

Somehow, the majority of Ste's feelings have managed to build up just from hearing Brendan's voice, or seeing his things strewn over the coffee table or the kitchen counter, from listening to Cheryl's stories about him.

It makes him uncomfortable, and perhaps he'd be able to deal with this apparent gay crisis much more easily if he knew what was fact and fiction about Brendan Brady, the man he apparently harbours very gay, very lust-fueled, very romantic feelings for.

At this point, he has no way of knowing just how much he knows about Brendan is fact and what's his own imagination.

He has solid facts from Cheryl and Eileen, some from Brendan himself, sure.

He's knows Brendan has a bad past, one which he knows nothing about other than there was bad blood between Brendan and his father, and who his friends are, how old he is, what degrees he has, what businesses he owns, that he's rich, that he has two kids and an ex-wife, and that he likes books.

But everything else he's learned about the man through hearing the way he talks to his sister or Nate, and hearing the way he talks to his friends, could be entirely wrong.

He gets the impression that Brendan is freakishly insecure and depressed underneath the bad boy image and the evident anger issues, that he holds family close to his heart, treats his friends well, and is actually the most caring, most loving guy in the world if you get to know him.

But there are plenty of valid reasons that his theory could be completely disproved as well.

Like how he's never seen any of that straight up, except for a bit of the family thing just when he was scrapping playfully with his sister and before that when he was cradling his son, or the fact that Brendan's apparent front might actually be just another side to him and not completely an act.

Like how it was just yesterday he heard Brendan screaming down the phone at Warren like they weren't friends at all, or that time Amy told him she'd seen Brendan wrench a guy's arm back and pin his face to the bar for looking at him wrong.

Brendan, for all Ste knows, could be a violent, angry, egotistical jerk that sometimes has a softer side.

So yeah, maybe Ste isn't comfortable with the whole having-feelings-for-Brendan-Brady fiasco because he isn't actually sure who the man is. And yet, having Brendan pressed against his side like this, loose-limbed and on his way to falling asleep, is making him feel so content and relaxed that it could be someone he's known and loved for years dozing on his shoulder. He doesn't feel at all on edge because Brendan's lying all over him like it's the most natural thing in the world; it's his own damn thoughts that are making his nerves spike up and the angst kick in.

He risks a glance at Brendan and, yep, sure enough, that's Brendan Brady who's asleep on his shoulder with his eyelashes fluttering now and then, mouth open in a small 'o' shape and breathing softly.

Ste is fucked. So utterly fucked.


	6. Chapter 6

Ste is woken up at nine by a text and spends the next two minutes grumbling and groaning to himself that weekends are lie-in days and he absolutely should not be subjected to the kind of cruelty that involves his precious sleep being disturbed on a Saturday by someone texting him.

He's not a teenager anymore; he has permanent friends now, doesn't get hyped by the thought of seeing them because he knows they're a constant in his life that, while he knows he's lucky to have, he's incredibly familiar with, and their texts do not excite him, and he likes them even less when they're waking him up at 9 O'clock on a God damn Saturday.

If he were still 16, awed and joyful at the fact that anybody even wanted to hang out with him, it'd be a different story; but he isn't, and as it happens he's very grumpy as he reads Amy's text that tells him she expects him to meet her in the village at ten.

Sure, he's ecstatic to finally see his kids. He's just unhappy about only having four hours of sleep. He didn't get into bed until 3 AM, having fallen asleep with Brendan on his shoulder some time around one, then being woken up by Cheryl (apparently all the Brady's are night owls) at 2:50 to find that they'd somehow curled themselves around each other. When he'd asked why no one had woken them up before, Cheryl had told him simply that it's been a long time since Brendan's slept for more than two hours and she was tempted to leave them there all night but figured she'd save them from the neck ache.

Considerate of you, really Cheryl.

Brendan had just become even more grumpy than usual and shoved Ste away from him like the sight of him personally offended him, nearly sending Ste flying off the sofa, before making a hasty getaway to his bedroom like the rude person he truly is.

After that, he couldn't sleep, constantly tossing and turning. It didn't help that at 5 AM he heard Brendan pottering around in the kitchen, either incredibly clumsy or just possessing a general disregard for his fellow housemates (Ste would bet on the latter, because a man like Brendan Brady with posture and a graceful swagger like that could never be clumsy and he's got plenty of experience when it comes to Brendan being rude), muttering under his breath about God knows what.

He'd finally gone back to bed at half past, and Ste had finally, finally managed to drift off at around six. So, yeah, Ste is not a happy bunny. Or a happy anything, for that matter.

For all the ribbing he did at Brendan's expense about the man potentially being a serial killer, Ste feels like he could easily murder someone. Lack of sleep  _does things_  to him, and he really doesn't function right without at least seven hours of good kip.

Still, he quickly thumbs a reply to Amy, telling him she could expect to see him at half past, because even if he actually  _tried_ to be ready in forty-five minutes he wouldn't end up making it, and reluctantly pulls himself out of bed.

He showers and dresses into some tight jeans and a polo shirt, slipping into the grey plimsolls (which he's found out are incredibly comfortable, even if you can feel most of the ground you're walking on when while wearing them) and spraying some deodorant.

His toothbrush snaps in half while he's brushing his teeth, leaving him to wonder just  _how old_  the thing is as he finishes brushing his teeth with a decidedly shorter handle, getting a lot of frothy drool on his hand in the process.

He throws it in the bin and washes his hands when he's done, making a mental note to buy a new one today.

When he leaves his room he's met by the sight of a disheveled looking Brendan tiredly eating cereal with his kids; he's got a fluffy navy dressing gown on and his hair is a complete mess. It's a sight that pulls at Ste's heartstrings.

Declan is noisily chatting about nothing in particular, talking for the sake of talking, it seems, much like Ste knows he does sometimes, and Paddy is sitting in a make-shift high chair with a bowl of sloppy weetabix that's actually just a small stool with a belt looped through the rungs of its back and strapped around the little boy. There's a pillow underneath him, too. Most of his breakfast is on the table and there's a soiled cloth next to Brendan that says he's given up on trying to get Paddy to do more eating of his food than playing with it.

Ste knows the feeling. Leah was a nightmare.

He greets the older man with a silent nod, to which he gets nothing but a raised eyebrow over a mug of coffee. Right then. Fine. Back to being an asshole. Whatever. Ste thinks he's mentioned something before about Brendan's hot and cold attitude giving him emotional whiplash.

He won't be surprised if he gets a trapped nerve.

He pours himself a coffee from the pot, since it's still hot and apparently Brendan knows  _just_  how to work the grinder to get amazing fresh coffee, and makes himself a bowl of cereal with a generous helping of milk.

It's a habit he's gained from Leah, learning that he too likes to drink the cereal-flavoured milk afterwards even though he thought that phase had passed back when he became a teenager who was too cool for cereal and instead had a breakfast of coffee and cigarettes, because he and his friends were chill as fuck and  _obviously_ didn't need to eat in the mornings because cafes and smoking was how the cool kids did it in movies.

His parents didn't care either way, so he pretty much did what he wanted as long as it didn't cause them any hassle.

Driving a car into a tree during a joy-ride when he didn't even have a licence caused them hassle, but lucky for him he was sent to young offenders before Terry could even lay a finger on him. The first month in young offenders had been something he'd welcomed, relieved to get away from his bastard of a step-dad; but every month after that had been hell. Callum was the only thing that kept him from becoming a depressed recluse. God, he could have become like Brendan! There's a thought he doesn't want to have. Ste thoroughly enjoys his friends and frequent social outings, thank you very much.

He eats his breakfast quickly and drains his coffee like he needs it to survive - which, hey, he probably does.

Four hours of sleep affects the best of people, not just Ste.

Then, he's out of the door with his wallet, phone and keys, calling a taxi on his way down the stairs. He waits five minutes before the taxi shows up, apparently already in the area, and when he's inside he realises it's the same man he's meant to have drinks with next Saturday.

"Oh, hey," He says brightly, "Weird how we keep ending up in the same taxi together, innit?"

The taxi man - Todd, as he'd learned the man's name is - smiles at him and laughs a bit.

"Must be fate." He smirks, and Ste laughs. Todd's dry humour is one of the things he likes about him.

He's attractive, Ste notices, in that abstract kind of way, where a person can be attractive to one person and just plain weird-looking to another. He's got large hazel eyes that remind him of a puppy, freckled cheekbones and a freckled nose that has a tilt to it, with unruly chestnut hair and a shadow of stubble. His ears a little too small, he's got a scar in one eyebrow that looks like he accidentally shaved a strip along the middle, and somehow it's endearing and it suits him.

So Ste is quite obviously one of those people who thinks he's attractive, and there's something new: thinking that men who aren't Brendan Brady are attractive.

So maybe he should explore this thing. They are going for drinks next weekend, after all, even if Ste had insisted to himself that it was just platonic. If he's not wrong, Todd does flirt with him, and that smirk is definitely flirtatious, so he probably thinks that their drinks next weekend are a date.

Maybe that's not a bad idea at all.

"Must be." Ste says with a smirk of his own and a little wink, because damn it he can flirt and he's going to have this.

Todd seems to light up at Ste's response, like Ste has finally given him the confirmation that he needs, and it opens a floodgate of flirting, banter and suggestive comments right up until the ride is over and Ste's getting out of the car.

He leans back in to hand over the money, but Todd refuses it, says "it's on me", like that's no big deal, and leaves Ste gob-smacked with a wink and a wave goodbye before he drives away.

Well then. Ste could get used to that, definitely.

He walks up to the water fountain where Amy's waiting with Leah and Lucas, and the sight of them makes him nearly crumple with grief and joy. Tears prick at his eyes - it's been nearly three months since he's seen them - but he swallows back the feeling and instead bundles them up in his arms and hugs them tightly, heart pounding at their chorus of "daddy, daddy, daddy!".

They go to the park and Ste and Amy sit on a bench while Leah and Lucas run around and play on the swings and the slide. Amy tells him that he told the kids he was away on a visit to a distant relative so he couldn't visit them, and that she explained his moving out and their break up.

The kids had been upset, inevitably, but they'd gotten over it pretty quickly once Amy had assured them that Ste still loved them and she's read out a text from him saying just how much. Mummy and daddy are best friends now, just like Leah's friend Jessica's parents are.

They catch up with each other, talking about work and television and friends and such. It's when they get to relationships that Ste pauses for a moment. Amy gives him a curious look as he bites his lip and thinks for a moment.

Maybe he could tell Amy. It might feel better, if he isn't shouldering this weight alone; but what would she think? Would she accept him? He doesn't have any reason to believe she wouldn't; but then he doesn't have any reason to believe that she would either. Would she be understanding? Would she support him?

He thinks about their relationship, how it was less natural when he got back than before he'd met Callum; he thinks about how everything became a routine and felt forced, until eventually he was treating her like a best friend, or even a sister; he thinks about Brendan and how the sight of him immediately drew Ste in; he thinks about Todd and their not-date/possible-date next weekend. Perhaps this was a long time in coming, and Brendan was the wake up call he needed for his brain to catch up with the programme.

"Ste?" She snaps him out of his reverie, causing him to blush. "What's on your mind?" She asks.

He looks at her for a moment, before...

"I think I'm gay," He blurts. Well, way to drop the bomb, Steven, well done. "I mean- I- Well, it's just recently I've had these feelings... and, like-"

Amy slaps a hand across his mouth and he looks at her wide-eyed, stunned and anxious. She's looking at him with a similar expression, and they must look like absolute idiots to everyone else in the park.

"Shut up!" She screeches, "No way! What? How does this even happen? I mean, we've got kids!"

Ste looks down at his hands in his lap and folds his thumbs over each other repeatedly, a nervous habit he developed a long time ago. He shrugs his shoulders weakly, not trusting his voice. It's silent after that, Amy gaping and Ste refusing to look anywhere but his own knees, until there's another shriek in his ear minutes later.

"Oh my God, I've got a gay best friend!"

Ste startles and jerks his head up, Amy's mouth stretched into a huge grin and her eyes lit up with amusement and bewilderment and all the things in between.

"Uh," Ste says dumbly, because apparently Amy grinning about him possibly being gay reduces him to incoherent noises. Seriously. What. "You're not... weirded out or anything?"

Amy actually cackles at that, snorting a little between breaths.

"Oh dear God, your face! You totally thought I was going to hate you! Oh my God, I've just been waiting for you to admit it! Ah, it's fun messing with you, Steven. You do light up my days."

And that- well, that has Ste thinking. Because what? Again: Seriously. What.

"What."

"Oh c'mon, Ste, you may have been oblivious or in denial this whole time but don't think I haven't noticed your immediate interest whenever Brendan is mentioned, or your constant complaining about him, or the way your mind drifts off all the time. You are absolutely the twenty-one year old male version of a teenage girl with a crush. Bisexual, gay, pan-sexual, whatever the hell it is you are, I've known about your little thing for Brendan since the start."

Ste flushes wildly at that, ducking his head down with his cheeks flaming, gasping "Amy!", abashed.

"What?" She smirks, "We're telling truths here, right? Thought I'd confess, too."

Ste doesn't really know what to say; he was expecting more drama, more embarrassment and questioning and fuss, more... rejection. What he wasn't expecting was for Amy to pretty much say "Er, hello Steven Hay! You've been giving off gay vibes since you met that Irish guy! Duh!", and laugh at his bewilderment like he was the best entertainment she'd had in weeks - which, to be fair, is probably accurate. Amy's life, Ste knows, can be really dull at times; and he's also known since he met her that embarrassing him is her favourite pass-time.

"It's not like that, anyway..." Is what he ends up muttering. She arches an eyebrow at him, makes a little humming sound that tells him she wants to hear more, "Well he doesn't like me like that, right. Like, not at all. If I didn't know him any better, I'd say he were A-sexual, but he's got two kids, an ex-wife, and just last week Cheryl was ranting at Brendan for having a one night stand while she'd been in the house. But it's not even just that! It's like even being in the same room with me or daring to entertain the possibility that we could probably be great friends, sass versus sarcasm, y'know?

"The closest we've gotten is falling asleep against each other on the sofa, and the only reason we were sitting so close is because Cheryl and Nate forced their way onto a three-seater and Brendan ended up right up against me without a choice. I mean, yeah, he took me to a pub and made sure I got something to eat when I had a two-day phase of not eating and over-working, but he literally said these exact words:  _wouldn't be much use to us if you're too ill to work, would you?_. Which is basically a big fat screaming warning sign with flashing lights and neon letters that Brendan Brady does not care about me as a person and only tolerates my existence and the occasional mini conversation because I live under his roof and he doesn't want to upset his sister! Or his business!"

Amy runs her fingers through his hair and gives him a smile.

"Ste, if a man like Brendan Brady was comfortable enough with being right up against you that he fell asleep, I think he likes you more than he lets on, okay? Now c'mon, because as... enlightening as this has been - not - we're here to do stuff with the kids."

"Doub it, but anyway... I know, you're right, so let's just focus on that. Where to?"

"I was thinking we could take them into town, take them for something to eat, do a bit of toy shopping, or clothes shopping since apparently six is the new twelve and Leah's already got her own version of  _fashion_."

Ste snorts at that.

"What, Peppa Pig?" He asks. Amy gives him a sarcastic smile.

"No, more like, 'mummy everyone's wearing those skirts, I need one too!'."

"Well we better get one of those skirts for her, then."

* * *

Apparently shopping with a six-year-old who wants a fashionable skirt but keeps getting distracted by Disney Princess drawing sets in shop windows is a very difficult experience. Ste could have definitely done with some extra hours sleep. He's kind of wondering how bad of a parent it'd make him to take some speed in the presence of his daughter - because he really needs a boost of  _something_  right now, and caffeine doesn't seem like it'll do much.

It doesn't help that Lucas is at that fearsome age of four and has a tantrum about every little thing that doesn't go his way.

... Or cries.

Seriously, there is a  _lot_ of crying.

Eventually though, he and Amy find a balance and by the end of the day it's all gone pretty well.

Lucas couldn't have ice cream  _and_ cake, but he could have one of those mini cake rolls with the cold cream inside that are basically the same thing; Leah couldn't get three skirts  _and_  the Disney art set, but she could get one skirt as well as the Disney art set and save up to buy more skirts another time; and so the cycle goes. Compromise is an important thing in life, Ste knows, and it's good that his kids are learning it.

"I'll see you when I see you then," Amy smiles, holding her arms out for a hug, "Give us a text." Ste wraps his arms around her, nodding, kisses her temple and gives her a little squeeze before letting go.

"Definitely."

"Bye daddy," Leah and Lucas chorus, and he hugs them both, one in each arm.

"Love you two," He murmurs, kissing their cheeks.

"Love you too daddy," Leah says. Lucas nods in agreement.

"See you later then," Ste smiles, waving them off before he orders a taxi to go back home.

* * *

When he gets home, he's hit by the sound of someone singing. He closes the door softly and quietly, doesn't want it to stop before he figures out who it is.

It's Brendan, he realises.

The sound is coming from the bathroom, slightly muffled through the walls and the sound of running water. It's the same husky tone from the car, makes Ste's veins thrum with something like mild excitement. He doesn't recognise the words, realises they're being sung in another language, but the tune is definitely familiar; it makes his heart kick up.

"Tá sé in am dom anois, airím beagánín níos fearr chuile lá, ach admhaím nach bhfuil athrú tar éis tíocht orm, nach gcloiseann tú mo ghlór? Táim fós i mo sheasamh anseo,"

He realises he's been stood at the door for a stupid amount of time when Eileen comes into the living room, Paddy asleep in her arms, raising an eyebrow at him. He blushes and steps away, sitting on the sofa.

"What's he singing in?" He asks. Eileen chuckles, sitting down beside him.

"Gaelic." Ah, right. That's... ridiculously hot. Seriously, that shouldn't be as attractive to Ste as it is. Why is that even attractive at all?

"Can you speak that?" He asks. She shakes her head, no.

"It's not a common language anymore, we speak English. He insisted on learning it when he was about ten though, became fluent by the age of seventeen."

"Why'd it take him so long?" Ste asks, to which Eileen chuckles again.

"It takes time enough to learn the basics of a language, three years at least, and then to truly learn it, slang n' all, it takes time spent around people who are also fluent in it, listening to songs in the language, watching TV shows and all of that. And since it's uncommon now, that's hard to do. But Brendan found a Gaelic-speaking family when he was fourteen and would spend time with them after school if he wasn't working, and they'd only talk to him in Gaelic, whether he understood them or not, and he'd listen to folk songs, and soon he just picked it up."

Ste nods, fascinated. He couldn't learn another language if he tried; it took him all his time to understand English, thanks to his dyslexia.

"Bí i do thost!" Brendan's voice interrupts them. Ste jumps, glaring when he turns around to see Brendan's smug smirk. He loses it, however, when he sees Brendan's damp, shirtless torso, only a towel hung loose around his hips.

" _That one_ , I do understand," Eileen rolls her eyes before looking at Brendan again, " _You_ shut up. I'm allowed to talk about you if I want to."

Brendan gives her a significant look, one that screams  _no, you're really not, and shut up before I strip you of your vocal chords_.

Okay, so maybe it doesn't  _quite_ say that exactly, not in so many words, at least, but it could!

"Where's Declan?" Ste asks, breaking the somewhat tense silence. It appears ex-husband and ex-wife can converse with only their eyebrows. It's all really rather fascinating, but Ste thinks he'll save the analysis for some other time.

"Cheryl's taken him out for a bite to eat, which probably translates to Nate is spoiling them both with food and whatever piques their interest," Brendan drawls, still standing there in nothing but a towel, which, rude! Ste could really do without that distraction, thank you very much. Eileen gives him a smirk like she  _knows_ , and that just won't do. He pointedly keeps his eyes fixed on Brendan's face, instead of letting them alternate between his face and chest.

"Aw, well that'll be nice for him, won't it?" Ste chirps, earning himself a disdainful look from Brendan.

"No," He frowns, "It's horrible. He'll just start assuming that Eileen has as much money as Nate does and then throw a tantrum when he can't get what he wants, because children's logic narrows down to if one adult has money, all of them do."

Well, Ste thinks, that's fair, he can see where Brendan's coming from with that, definitely.

Eileen's tittering away next to them, obviously thoroughly amused by Brendan's disgruntlement. Apparently she doesn't mind Nate spoiling the kids, not at all worried about looming tantrums. Ste admires the bravery. He's dealt with more than his fair share of tantrums today; he could really do without one for a few days - or ever (preferable but completely unrealistic).

"Brendan, Deccy knows he only gets expensive stuff when he's with you and his aunt n' uncle," Eileen smiles, "He's young but he's smart." Brendan scoffs at this.

"I know he's smart, but he's still a kid. Kids want stuff," He says defiantly, flapping his hand in a dismissive gesture. Eileen smirks.

"Yes, Brendan, kids do want stuff," She says, "So do adults. But Deccy understands that he can't get expensive things back at home."

"He would be able to if you just let me give you more money than I do," Brendan grumbles under his breath, but both Eileen and Ste hear it.

"And here I was thinking you didn't want him spoiled, turns out you're still in a mood about me not wanting to accept your hot cash." Eileen's smirking, but there's a bit of heat behind the words. Ste excuses himself and heads for his bedroom, but he can't help listening in once he's inside.

Brendan rubs at his eyebrows, muttering "Jesus" and sighing through his nose.

"I told ye, Eileen, my money comes from the businesses," Brendan insists through gritted teeth. Eileen tuts, shaking her head.

"I'm sure 90% of it does. And you may not be as involved as before but I know you, Brendan, which you seem to forget," She says sternly, "You might not deal with it direct but you're still involved with Danny. The only reason I turn a blind eye to it is because you haven't put one of us in danger yet, and probably won't since you're in a different country now, but the moment something happens, or the moment you're sucked back into the deep end, you won't be seeing these kids again for a long, long time so I'd think  _very_  carefully about whether it's worth being involved with that bullshit."

Brendan growls lowly, clenching his fists by his sides.

"You don't get it, do you? You can't just turn ye back on someone like Danny, Eileen, which is exactly why I'm still involved in the first place! You know how you get an out? You pay up by giving him fifty percent of your bank account! You think I can afford that, do ye? I can't! I have four businesses to run, I have this place to pay bills for, I have you and the kids to provide for, and I have to buy food and tax the car. If I get cut fifty percent, then I'm likely to lose seventy-five percent of everything I own!"

Paddy stirs against Eileen's chest, waking up with little sobs. She quickly soothes him and puts him in the room, before coming back to find Brendan still livid, leaning over against the sofa and clutching the back, taking deep breaths and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Thought you said you'd been taking your tablets," She says calmly, "All of them."

Brendan glowers at her, vision a little unfocused.

"I have," He hisses, clenching his jaw.

"Oh yeah? Looks like you're having some control issues there, Brendan. How's that I.E.D acting up for ye? Your medication is supposed to help relieve tension and reduce your explosive outbursts by increasing the provocative stimulus tolerance threshold. This doesn't look much like tolerance to me, Brendan. You look like you're barely stopping yourself from killing someone."

Brendan doesn't say anything, just slams his fist into the back of the sofa and punctured the leather, leaving a gaping hole.

"You need help, Brendan," Eileen says softly, keeping her distance.

Brendan laughs. It's a cold, horrible noise; he sounds delirious, psychotic and broken. He's heaving breaths through constricted lungs, a tight chest, and his eyes are wild.

"Help, ye say? Help? Ha, ha!" Brendan shakes his head, practically spitting as he hisses out what he has to say, "What, like daddy did ye mean? Yeah, okay, let's get me some help, okay- aha! Always did say I was a messed up kid, didn' 'e? Yeah, yeah he did. Ha, ha... ha... yeah... And, of course, you're so perfect, Eileen, ain't ye? Yeah, look at you. Never put a foot wrong, daddy's little girl. Bet he'd love to hear about the times his little angel acted like a  _little slut_ for me, wouldn't he? Not such a perfect woman, are ye? God you used to make me so angry sometimes, flirting with other men when I didn't give you my full attention. Not such a good little Catholic girl now, eh? No... no, no, no. Ha, ha. Maybe I'm not the only one who needs help. You could do with a little straightening out, huh? Aha- ha, ha- there's a funny term - straightening out. Didn't work for me, did it? No, daddy! No! No it didn't!"

Eileen bites her lip, taking a couple of steps back as Brendan paces.

"Stop it Brendan," She warns, voice quiet, "I know you don't mean what you're saying, not really, so stop it before you say something you can't take back. Just breathe. Calm down. You've got Paddy here and he's crying. I don't wanna have to take the kids home again. Just get a hold of yourself."

He takes deep breaths, gulps air like he's starved, claws at his knees, and settles the fire in his stomach to a dim smoulder.

He goes to his room, pulls on clothes and a leather jacket, runs his fingers through his hair, leaves before his son can ask why daddy was shouting at mummy.

* * *

Ste can't handle the awkwardness, the left over tension in the air. Eileen looks lost, younger than her years; Paddy's crying in her arms.

With an apologetic smile that probably comes off as more of a grimace, he leaves.

* * *

Somehow Ste finds himself in Brendan's club by 9 PM, sitting alone at the bar and nursing a pint of beer. All that runs through his mind is the sound of Brendan losing it, hoarse screaming and insults and desperation and hysteria, half-mad by whatever memories plague his mind, mentions of a father that taught his son to believe he's messed up.

And he is. God is he messed up.

But Ste gets a sinking feeling that the type of "messed up" Brendan's father talked about, made him feel, made him believe, isn't the messed up that Brendan is.

He finishes his drink and orders another, and then another, and then another, steadily intoxicating himself because he hasn't been drunk in  _so long_  and it's been a weird night and he doesn't know how to feel.

By 10:30 he's on the borderline, somewhere between tipsy and drunk, enough to make him feel buzzed and silly but not enough that he doesn't know what he's doing, where he is, what he wants. That's a problem. He decides on more alcohol, outraged when he's denied it.

"Y' wha'?!" He yells, "I'm a payin' customer, right!"

The bar tender - a blonde girl with pink and blue dip dye and thick eyeliner; a student, Ste thinks, possibly named Ashley - merely shrugs her shoulders with an expression that translates as a helpless sort of "what can you do?" that just irritates Ste further.

"Boss' orders," She says casually, throwing her thumb back over her shoulder at a shadowed figure next to a door that's labelled "Office".

Brendan. Of course. Fucking Brendan.

Ste looks back at Ashley, face like thunder, nods his head and gets up, turns to head over to confront Brendan, demand an explanation, but when he looks over again the man is gone.

When Ste looks around, he can't see him anywhere. He's gone. Vanished. And Ste's anger just seems to dissipate. Brendan Brady is an enigma. Ste's still trying to work out if it's a good or a bad thing. It's certainly a seductive prospect, tempting in dangerous ways; he's always loved a good puzzle, has Ste, so of course this can only end in catastrophe, because he's powerless to stop this intense need to follow, to learn, to understand.

He's going to push and push until either one or both of them snaps, and it'll be explosive.

Yet he can't help himself.

So he accepts defeat, slips out of the club the back way, through the fire exit, even though he probably shouldn't, and slinks down the metal steps with his shoulders slumped and head bowed.

Brendan was probably right to stop him anyway; there are kids in the house.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he sees a familiar black Audi. There's quiet music coming from it, a band Ste does know: Death Cab For Cutie. He thinks this one is  _I Will Follow You Into The Dark_.

Brendan's leaning against the side, a cigarette between his fingers as he draws steady inhales and lets the smoke pour from slightly parted, damp lips like a God damn trail that Ste just wants to follow the path of and let his mouth capture Brendan's in a kiss. His eyes are closed, head tipped back, looks blissed as fuck, one arm folded over his chest, the bicep bulging, using it to prop his other arm on so the cigarette remains close to his mouth.

"Didn't know you smoked," Ste says, walks up beside Brendan and stops an arm's length away. Brendan just tips his head down and gives him a dark look, something heavy and weighted in his gaze.

"Stress smoker," Brendan replies curtly, after a long moment of just staring. He does that a lot, Ste's noticed, just looks at him intensely like if he looks for long enough he'll either intimidate Ste or find the answer to all of life's problems.

Something like that, anyway.

To Ste's surprise, Brendan extends his arm and holds the fag in offering. It's been a while since Ste's smoked anything - he quit when he'd become involved with Amy and Leah - but he figures why not, so he takes it. And there's a small, sad part of him that reminds him that Brendan's lips were wrapped around the tip only moments ago - and doesn't that sound like a blatant innuendo.

He takes the tip to his mouth, inhales a lungful, doesn't choke like he expected he might after so many years, and closes his eyes at the feel of it. He enjoys the thickness of it in his throat, like drowning in smoke. It still tastes bitter, nasty; he still likes it.

Brendan lets him have another drag before he takes it back and finishes it, stamping it out on the concrete.

They stand in silence afterwards, for God knows how long: could be minutes, could be hours; feels like forever. The music's still playing softly in the background, a different band now, different song,  _Radiohead - Creep_ ; the noise of the club is faint and dull and barely noticeable. Here, under a blanket of dark sky and warm night air, everything feels dreamlike and private, just the two of them.

And it is just the two of them. Everyone else is either at home, inside the club, or at the front of the club.

"C'mere," Brendan says lowly, quietly. His hand is lifted, two fingers curled, beckoning.

There's something about the way he's standing, open and unguarded, like a God damn invitation, that makes something coil tight and hot inside Ste's stomach. He's pretty sure he knows what's going to happen, but he can't quite believe it. But God does he want it to happen.

He closes the distance between them, takes those two final steps. Brendan's fingertips are gentle under his chin, nothing like he imagined this would be but so much better. His heart is jackhammering in his chest, feels like his ribs are bruising on the inside, his breathing is laboured and shallow, and his skin tingles.

Brendan leans down and captures his lips with his own, just the tender, gentle press of two mouths opening up to each other, slotting together. Brendan's lips are soft and plush against Ste's own, his stubble rough wherever it touches his skin. They kiss slowly and Brendan pushes deeper, bites down a little on Ste's bottom lip, makes him moan softly, cut off in his throat, and it's more passionate now, more needy.

Ste opens up for Brendan at the first touch of the man's tongue to his lips. He pushes into his space, crowds up against him,  _finally_  gets his hands on that solid chest, feels the warmth and the strength of it, slides his palms up to get a feel of those broad shoulders and lets one climb higher, tangles his fingers in the hair at the back of his head. It's soft and thick, no product in it due to his hasty getaway. Brendan's own hands are firm on Ste's hips, gripping tight and pulling him in, their bodies meeting from chest to thigh, and they feel like a brand as they slip under his shirt, onto his skin.

Brendan smells like cigarette ash and clean skin; he tastes like smoke and lemon, his mouth warm and talented.

Ste doesn't care about the noises he's making, the helpless little whimpers he lets out when Brendan rolls their hips together, grinds into him, thrusts his tongue like he's fucking his mouth; his skin is feverish, burning up, and it's too good, all of it too much yet all he wants is more, to feel Brendan's muscles against his slight frame, skin on skin. Brendan keeps making these little noises, cut off groans and quiet growls, and they're driving Ste wild.

Brendan's the one to break it off, rests their foreheads together and places soft little kisses on Ste's lips constantly, like he can't get enough even when he's breathless.

He backs Ste up against the car, drags the thick, hard line of his cock against Ste's own erection and watches hungrily as Ste's head drops back, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out dirty little moans and ruts up against Brendan shamelessly.

When Ste bares his throat to Brendan, the other man growls lowly and drags his teeth over Ste's fluttering pulse point, sucks hard and rolls his tongue against the abused flesh, leaving his mark. Ste whines and shakes, feels embarrassingly close to coming already, just like this, just from the onslaught of Brendan's lips and tongue and the skilled roll of his pelvis. The slight stinging pain only serves to make him more desperate, the contrast doing things for him he would never have imagined.

Girls aren't like this; he's never had a girl that's handled him roughly, that's pressed him up against something and just took from him, practically dry fucked him and left behind their mark like a little reminder, like a claim.

There's something inside him that wants to play up to it, be submissive and just let Brendan take complete control of his body; and he does.

Brendan's hands are large and hot as they explore the expanse of Ste's ribs, thumbs teasing at his nipples.

Then Brendan bites down sharply on the cord of muscle in his shoulder, a hot spot he didn't even know he had, and his hips thrust roughly, and he's rolling Ste's nipples to hardness, and that just does it. Suddenly Ste's coming, a loud moan escaping his throat that gets cut off by Brendan's mouth.

Brendan carries on grinding, rides him through it, swallows up the sounds greedily and finds his own orgasm, stilling against Ste before trembling through the aftershocks.

Brendan's got his head tucked against Ste's neck, panting harshly. Ste's chest is heaving, he keeps making these little hitching noises as he tries to get his breath back.

Once the afterglow dies down, he finds himself feeling anxious and a little scared. What's gonna happen now? Brendan's unpredictable, this whole thing came out of nowhere. Is he gonna push Ste away now? Hate him?

He feels a little embarrassed, can't believe he just got off against a car, came in his pants like a horny teenager; but he doesn't regret anything, has never felt so damn good in his life.

Will Brendan regret it?

His questions might be answered when Brendan kisses him again, softer, slower, just as passionate, all lips and no tongue with a playful hint of teeth.

Not a word is spoken when they get into the car. Brendan just drives, eyes fixed to the road, and Ste looks out of the window. It feels like this might just be their little secret, that nothing more will come of it. Things could be a lot worse than Brendan acting a little distant with him, though. So it might be okay, Ste guesses, that this is just a one time thing never to be spoken of again.

Just as long as Brendan doesn't go back to pretending like he doesn't exist. Ste doesn't think he could handle that.


	7. Chapter 7

When they arrive home, there's no one awake. Ste steps inside and Brendan locks the door behind him, then walks off to his bedroom without another word. He's left staring helplessly at the man's retreating figure, confused and a little empty.

It's not like he'd been expecting cuddles and kisses and a God damn relationship or anything - that's just not who Brendan is, and they literally  _just_  got off against a car right out of the blue so it's not like there should be one even if this were two normal people - but  _something_  would have been nice,  _anything_. A little acknowledgement? A smile? A simple goodnight? What kind of man gets into your personal space, kisses you like you're everything he's ever wanted, then drives you home in stifling silence and abandons you at the doorway?

A man like Brendan, apparently.

And okay, Ste might be a little hurt. He shouldn't be, he knows; he should have expected this:  _did_  expect it. That doesn't mean the reality stings any less, however. For all he enjoyed feeling like prey earlier, feeling like the kill afterwards is just painful.

He's got the bruises on his neck and the red raw stubble burn to remind him of everything - as if he could forget. Brendan might just be an animal, and Ste can feel his bite deep inside his chest.

"You're just being ridiculous now, get a grip," Ste tells himself sternly, shakes himself out a little and creeps into his bedroom as quietly as possible. He's not going to be wounded by this; he isn't weak.

He's got a date next weekend anyway, so he should just focus on his job and his kids and then think about that when it's closer to the time. Todd is nice. He's attractive and he's funny and he wouldn't just throw Ste to the kerb after he's had his wicked way with him.

Todd isn't ashamed of who he is, of who he likes; he isn't, or he wouldn't have asked Ste out.

That's the exact opposite of what Cheryl had said about Brendan, was it not?

_"He's not exactly out and proud, not by a long shot..."_

Yeah, he doesn't need Brendan. Their little exchange against the side of Brendan's car was fun and it was hot and that's all there is to it. If Brendan doesn't want to acknowledge it, Ste won't either. It's no hardship on his part. Not in the slightest.

Funny how that doesn't stop the churning in his stomach, the sickening feel of emptiness.

* * *

Sunday is a lazy day. Ste doesn't get out of bed until midday.

Brendan's already taken Eileen to the airport, come back, and taken the kids out, Cheryl says. Ste shrugs and makes himself a fry up and coffee. It doesn't taste as good as the coffee Brendan makes: he drinks it anyway.

He spends the entire day in front of the television in his boxers and dressing gown. Cheryl asks if he's okay now and then, concern edging awfully close to worry which makes Ste feels guilty as fuck, but it's the same answer every time: I'm fine, Cheryl, just bein' lazy.

By the time it finally goes dark, Ste has watched eight re-runs of F.R.I.E.N.D.S, three episodes of Two and a Half Men, two movies and some teleshopping, with one break to eat an actual meal to get Cheryl to stop fussing over him and two breaks to make himself more coffee and go to the toilet.

He goes back to bed at half past ten, doesn't see Brendan even once, doesn't see Nate either, and Cheryl's busy with paperwork at the kitchen table, placated for the time being.

* * *

Monday comes around again and Ste showers and dresses. He eats breakfast and makes idle conversation with Cheryl, Nate and Declan. Paddy doesn't talk or make any vocal noise, just sits and gets more food on his bib than in his mouth.

Brendan doesn't come out of his room. Ste leaves for work.

The restaurant is extremely busy today; flocks of businessmen with lunch meetings fill up the booths and Ste is rushed off his feet, order after order after order flooding through. It kind of feels like drowning.

He works his final hour over time but stays 'til the end anyway; he doesn't work, he just sits in the office with Cheryl and they joke around as she files papers and marks the books. Cheryl's really easy to get along with, her personality never failing to lift Ste's mood. She feels like the sister he never had.

Brendan doesn't pick them up; Cheryl says he's taken the kids to the beach and they're staying overnight.

They get a taxi home.

* * *

Before he knows it, it's Friday again. Ste has his appointment with Lucy and his date tomorrow. The restaurant is unnaturally slow, barely any customers, and Ste is bored out of his mind.

He and Jackson, his sous chef, make entertainment for themselves by stealing three bags of expensive, quality peanuts from the bakers and throwing them into each other's mouths, increasing the distance between them gradually.

Cheryl catches them in the act when she walks in just as Ste throws a peanut and it hits her on the forehead. She tells them she doesn't know whether she should punish them for wasting money or laugh because they're idiots: she does both, docking £5 of their wages.

It's no issue. Ste has a very significant sum of money in his bank account now, and Jackson has plenty of money and only works here because Cheryl needed staff at the time and it's something to do, something he enjoys. A £5 decrease is worth the fun.

Jackson is a funny guy, actually. He's about an inch taller than Ste, slender yet very muscular, with dusty brown hair and eyes the colour of a swimming pool. He was born and bred in New York and came here to gain some independence, be away from his rich family. He's got a nice smile and a winning personality, and he's got a girlfriend back at home called Kelly who works at the local hospital. Ste's met her once; she's really polite, has an innocent sense of humour, and she's cute: blonde waves, crystal blue eyes, small with delicate curves.

Jackson reckons if Ste ends up with a boyfriend after his date then they should do a double date. Ste's never had the chance to go on a double date before, but he's always wanted to. It's so normal that it excites him, so of course he says yes.

His mind drifts to Brendan, of course, but he pushes away the feeling - something that's getting easier to do, yet never aches any less.

He's only seen Brendan twice this week: two painful hours on Tuesday night, and last night when they all sat down for a family dinner for the kids' last night here for another few months. Brendan had caught his eye across the table, mouthed "sorry", and Ste, like the weakling he is, couldn't help letting him off the hook.

He doesn't know how to feel about it, about any of it: what Brendan's apology meant, how easy it had been for him to cave, where he stood with Brendan now.

When does a man like Brendan Brady ever apologise anyway?

Ste is more than a little confused.

But Saturday comes around anyway, whether Ste's ready for it or not. He has his appointment with Lucy first thing in the morning, and they talk about his relationship - or lack of - with his mother and how Terry made him feel: 'ironing out the big issues first' sort of thing, identifying where it all started.

With this appointment comes that startling realisation that, had he grown up with good parents, or even just one, he probably would never have been in prison, would never have had half the issues he does, wouldn't have knocked Amy about, and he wouldn't have to be attending therapy for one clusterfuck of problems whilst facing new, arising problems at home, like his current bicurious experimentation, or Brendan Brady's shit storm of mixed signals and emotional whiplash. He's like a code Ste can't crack, and all the hot and cold is making him hurt. Not your usual dull ache of sadness, but actual physical pain. His chest clenches and his stomach twists and knots to the point where he feels like the anxiety is going to make him vomit, 'til he's got nothing but his stomach lining left to bring up, and sometimes his head pounds, too.

He realises he should probably bring it up with his therapist, see if it's a common reaction to someone you're inexplicably attached to despite them being a complete asshole; he feels like he might already know the answer, that it isn't normal to react to a situation like that with all the tell-tale signs of a panic attack that never actually comes but always makes Ste feel like he's on the edge of suffocating. Whenever he's around Brendan, it feels like when you're having a hot shower with really great water pressure. It feels really good, right? Even though the sheer power of the water makes it feel almost violent, and it can either really sting in that oddly bearable way or it can throb like tired muscles. But then all of a sudden your hot water runs out, and you're being cascaded in what feels like shards of ice, and it's brutal and it's startling and you just  _have_  to get out of there because if you stay in there any longer you know for damn sure you're going to regret it, that the pain is going to last a lot longer. That's what it feels like to be around Brendan. That's what it feels like to share space with someone you've grown attached to without really knowing or understanding why or how, and they just keep pushing you away after letting you in one time and giving you something you've craved for so long. It feels like Brendan is a dealer who refuses to give Ste his fix because he's a couple of quid short. It's crushing.

Ste ignores the problem; avoidance is something he's mastered over the years, anyway. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

By the time he gets home, there's three hours to kill before he has to be at The Dog for his date. He decides on killing some time watching TV, because lately is he isn't working or seeing the kids then he's a complete couch potato. He's pretty sure the only reason he hasn't put on any flab or weight over the past week or so is because he forgets to eat so often that it should probably concern him.

Nate comes in after a run, or the gym, or something; Ste isn't sure what other explanation there could be for the guy wearing one of those sport headbands and sweating like a pig, but he's wearing jeans and a t-shirt so it's all very strange.

"Uh..." Ste says intelligently, which just causes Nate to smirk amusedly.

"Wondering why I've been working out in normal clothes?" He asks, the curve of his mouth up to one side more than the other and it's so  _him,_ so sly and smug in that way that makes you feel like you're always missing out on a joke, that Ste doesn't even feel apprehensive anymore. He wonders, instead, when it was that he got used to Nate's slightly unsettling behaviour.

"Yup," Ste answers simply, nodding vehemently. Nate grins, wolfish.

"The explanation, I'm afraid, is simple and mundane at best. Nothing exciting or weird. The showers aren't working at the gym today, and I didn't want to put my gym gear back on."

Well, he wasn't lying: that was simple and mundane at best. Ste isn't sure why he was hoping for something more weird or exciting; maybe he just needs something new in his life to distract him from his traitorous brain's apparent pledged allegiance to thoughts of Brendan.

Apparently a sweaty Nate in casual clothing instead of gym gear seemed like it could be just that.

"What are you watching?" Nate asks, about to come over and sit down when Ste flaps a hand at him with a squawk and throws a pillow.

"You can sit and watch Buffy with me  _after_  you've had a shower, you stink like a fucking teenager after PE who hasn't learned what deodorant is yet."

Nate eyes him, again like always with that glint of sly humour, manages to smirk without moving his mouth at all, and just shrugs, giving an empathetic little nod before going into the bathroom.

"You say it like you're much older yourself!" Nate calls before he closes the door. Ste scowls in the general direction. Fuck him. Nate's only thirty himself; he's not exactly old and his teenage days certainly won't have become faded little images with the fuzzy blur of voices that may or may not be correct in his memory just yet.

Okay, so twelve years is a lot more than two or three (depending on whether or not people consider nineteen as still being a teenager even though you're legally classed as an adult at eighteen. Whatever, laws are weird) but the point still stands... sort of. Mostly. Whatever.

Nate returns fifteen minutes later in loose sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt with a glass of summer fruit smoothie in his hand. Somehow, this image makes him look even less imposing than his pyjamas: hair flat on his head and still damp, completely swamped in soft, worn cottons and polyester, hand gently clutching a healthy drink because he's secretly a health freak.

Ste has seen Nate in a business tux, okay? He knows imposing when he sees it now.

Also: Brendan. He doesn't even have to wear a suit to be imposing God damn it to fucking hell.

"Favourite character?" Nate asks immediately as he slumps into the cushions next to Ste, feet tucked up next to him.

"Definitely Xander," Ste grins. Nate fixes him with another smirk - and, really, is there ever a time that this man  _doesn't_ find something amusing? Perhaps Ste should be alarmed. Surely this is a sign of ill mental health and possible psychosis.

"Funny," Nate muses, the image of feigned innocence, "I would have had you down as a Willow guy." Ste arches an eyebrow at that; it's not what he said, just the way he said it.

"Meaning?" He asks, tone decidedly a little sharper than previous. Nate just smirks again, the bastard.

"Nothing." He says it far too casually for Ste's stomach to settle right, so of course he can't pay attention to the rest of the episode and before he knows it he has to be getting ready for his date. Funny how time flies by so fast like that.

He spends a good half an hour fretting over outfits, going back and forth between tight jeans and a dress shirt or bootcut jeans with a t-shirt and denim jacket. He's got an hour left, and he's still standing with a towel over his shoulder and glaring at both outfits like they've personally offended him.

Of course that's when Brendan comes in.

Ste absolutely does not jump. Brendan smirks for all of a second before he eyes the clothes on Ste's bed.

"Going somewhere?" He asks, arching an eyebrow. Ste nods slowly, cautiously.

"Date..." He says, unsure. Brendan seems to stiffen at that, jaw clenching.

"Right," He nods, his crossed arms locking together even tighter, "Can't pick an outfit?" He asks, to which Ste shakes his head. Brendan just hums his acknowledge, makes a calculating noise, before he's pushing Ste aside and peering into his wardrobe and back at the clothes on the bed.

He pulls out Ste's charcoal black Henley, his black and dark grey chequered blazer, and light tan, straight legged khakis. Ste eyes the outfit dubiously. Brendan also pulls out a pair of black dress shoes.

"Are you sure all that goes?" Ste asks, to which Brendan simply nods. "Well, thank-"

"Don't mention it," Brendan interrupts him, "Ever." And then he walks out - because Brendan does confusing things like that all the time, and Ste really has no idea if it's something to do with some sort of mental disorder, just who he is and how he's been brought up, or if it's just the effect he apparently has on the man.

* * *

When Ste arrives at The Dog, he's unbelievably glad that he let Brendan dress him; Todd is wearing faded red slacks with a dark sapphire button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and red suspenders hung either side of his thighs from his hips. The outfit shouldn't work but it absolutely does, highlighting his surprisingly broad shoulders and tapered waist, the lean shape of his thighs and the tightly corded muscles of his forearms. It's not too formal, yet anything but casual.

"Wow," is what Ste says in greeting, and Todd merely laughs, bright and cheerful.

"Wow yourself," He says, "You look delectable." Ste flushes and makes a little snorting noise, embarrassing himself further.

"Thanks," He manages. Todd just grins at him.

"Drink?" He gestures at the bar.

"Just a beer, please."

The date goes well. They have a few drinks in The Dog, then they catch a taxi into town and have dinner at a nice restaurant, nothing too fancy but more upscale than your average place. Conversation flows easily; Todd is really easy to talk to.

Todd talks about his family, about how his mother died when he was seven, bowel cancer, so he and his father moved to Italy and lived with his aunt for ten years, then came back here because it's always been their home and it just felt right. He tells Ste about how he dropped out of college because he was getting bullied really badly, but now he's going back to study law. He's well-educated on things like politics, criminology and history, as it turns out; he says he was a curious kid, and his dad used to be an officer before he retired, so things like that always fascinated him. He's not so good with maths or science.

He lives in an apartment on the opposite side of town from Ste, he loves football and plays friendly club matches every other Saturday, and he has just about every Marvel comic book there is to buy.

In return, Ste tells him a little about his parents: nothing much, just how his dad left before he was born and his step dad and mother weren't there for him.

Todd nods understandingly when he tells him, explains that his best friend in high school had an alcoholic mother who would use him as a slave or she'd whip him with belts and sticks or whatever she could get her hands on.

He also tells Todd about his living arrangements, how he lives with Cheryl, her brother and her husband, and he talks about his kids. He doesn't mention his therapist, or his time in young offenders. It's the first date, and it'll only ever be important if they end up going somewhere. He does tell him about his dyslexia but how it doesn't stop him from enjoying a good book every now and again, and about how he's a geek for Doctor Who and loves watching shows like Buffy, Supernatural and Teen Wolf. Anything with a good monster.

Ste pays for the taxi back, since Todd paid for dinner and most of the drinks. They part with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and a promise to go out again next Saturday.

* * *

 

Brendan is having the world's shittiest day, and by the time it's over he just wants to curl into a ball - so that's exactly what he does.

When he'd woken up this morning, he'd been in a terrible mood and it's lasted all day. Nothing feels right; he's upset and he hurts and he feels empty and emotionless at the same time and he's got no way to explain it, no reason why, other than the clinical diagnosis, which still doesn't explain  _why_  he gets like this.  _"There's a chemical imbalance in your brain, and looking at the results of your psycho-analysis I'm going to take a guess that it stems from some sort of childhood trauma, but only you can tell us if we're right or wrong and whether you get help depends on you"_  doesn't really explain anything at all, not really; it's just a fact, a statistic:  _this is what causes your depression, we just don't know how a chemical imbalance results in someone feeling like honest-to-God shit or why - something to do with your hippocampus, probably, but we can't really explain that either. Is there really an explanation for that? C'mon now, Brendan, let's get philosophical!_

He can't seem to stop thinking about anything and everything, most of it not even making any sense, and he keeps imagining up these little scenarios where he'll scream and yell at Cheryl or Mitzeee (who doesn't even realise just how much baggage he has, not yet) or Warren (neither does he) or Steven or Nate or  _somebody_ about why he's so fucked up and why he acts the way he does, and he can't even begin to explain why those little images keep playing out in his head. He doesn't seem to have any control over them, little subconscious scenarios; and at the end of them, when all is said and done, whoever it is either  _finally shuts up_ or they  _suddenly understand him_ and  _hug him_ or  _they look guilty_ and  _scolded_ and  _fuck_ , all of those outcomes are satisfying in the sickest of ways.

But, the scenario ending with the hug? Where he might finally let himself cry and be able to feel confident that whoever it is won't laugh at him, won't mock him or make him feel weak, is the one he craves the most. He just  _wants_. Wants to feel like he belongs somewhere again: hasn't felt that way since his eighth birthday, the last day before everything turned to shit. He wants to feel like maybe he isn't a freak, maybe he can be loved.

Perhaps, he supposes, he's a little touch-starved.

Okay. A lot touch-starved. He can't remember the last time he hugged anyone, just a completely normal, non-sexual embrace that doesn't expect, doesn't suggest, doesn't escalate. He doesn't remember the last time anyone  _voluntarily_ sat close enough to him that some part of their body would touch his.

It's not as if touch is something he's had the best track record with. When he was a child he hated it when people touched him, always flinching away or being stricken with a slimy feeling sense of terror.

He still does, sometimes: flinches when someone knocks past him in the club or even at home, or in a line at the shop.

Sometimes, though... when he's lying in his bed, large and comfortable and  _so incredibly empty_   _that everywhere but the space he's lying in feels like ice_ , in his expensive apartment... with its multiple en suites and large bathroom and fully stocked kitchen and expensive sofa with a stylish TV... he'll think about his kids, and he'll think about what he could have had with Eileen if he wasn't some fucking queer like his father always said he would be, and he'll look at the vast and gaping emptiness of the uninhabited space next to him, and he'll just remember how alone he really is.

A lot of it is his fault, he knows; he's got an image, a reputation to uphold, and it is the real him, but it's not all of who he is: it's just a part of it. Like how everyone has their dark side, he has power and crime and violence; and like how everyone has their better side, he has intelligence and his fatherhood and success.

He doesn't have love, though. Doesn't understand it, doesn't know how to love. So it's partly his fault, and he can't help it because he feels safer that way - it's a defense mechanism.

And yet - it doesn't matter that people touching him, getting close to him, is an idea that absolutely terrifies him.

It's all he wants, anyway.

So he's lying here, on his large comfortable sofa in front of his stylish TV in a tailored suit that only shows the world his rich, powerful and menacing side and nothing else of what there is to him, crumbling on the inside and feeling pathetic, with his legs curled to his chest.

And he knows, whoever walks in and asks him what's wrong, or looks at him funny, is going to be on the receiving end of a foul, foul temper and probably some choice words. And he doesn't want to keep doing this, he doesn't; but he just can't seem to stop.

Perhaps he's pushing boundaries, testing his limits; looking to see who really gives enough of a shit to stick around; measuring how long it takes for Cheryl to finally pack her things and grab Nate and find somewhere to live where she can be away from her screwed up brother and his metric-fuck-ton of issues, or how long it'll be before Steven realises he can find somewhere for himself soon with the money he's been saving up, until Steven dives at the chance to be away from the guy who keeps fucking with the poor boy because he has no idea what he wants and can't seem to figure out how to accept what he feels.

He's a mess.

Cheryl enters the room, Nate in tow, and they both stop when they see him. He ignores them, won't be able to control himself if he lets himself respond.

"Bren..." Cheryl begins, tentatively. He continues to ignore her. "You okay?"

"Go away," He says quietly, pointedly looking at the TV.

For once, she listens.


	8. Chapter 8

The first thing Ste sees when he enters the apartment is Brendan asleep on the sofa. The TV is on quietly, the rest of the room encompassed by darkness. It casts a soft glow on Brendan, the man awash with blue-white. His suit is rumpled, his knees are tucked up against his stomach, and his hands are fisted into a cushion. His lips are parted slightly, face open and vulnerable in a way it never is when he's awake. He looks even younger than he is.

Suddenly Brendan's eyes snap open, like he could feel Ste's gaze even in his sleep.

Their eyes meet, and Brendan just stares. Ste stares right back. For a moment, both of them remain completely still. Then Brendan shuffles back into the sofa, leaving just enough space in front of him for another body. He gives Ste a look, one full of intent.

Ste's moving before he even thinks about it.

He hasn't got a clue what he's doing, doesn't even know how to begin to explain the impulse, the urge. He's just got back from a date, for God's sake. With a really nice guy. Someone attractive and kind and funny.

 _He's not Brendan, though,_ his brain ever-so-helpfully supplies. And no. No, he really isn't. And maybe that's a good thing. Brendan is gorgeous and complicated and fucked up. Ste doesn't know why that makes the man so beautiful to him, but it does. Todd is nothing like him. Todd is simple, uncomplicated, and nice, and funny. Nothing like Brendan at all. It's a good thing, surely.

So why does it feel like it isn't?

Brendan's arms circle around him, pull him up against the muscled flanks of his long, lean body. Their noses brush, mouths almost touching. He can feel the heat of Brendan's breath ghost across his lips, the warmth of his body ease away the chill of outside. Ste finds himself leaning in, and when their lips meet it's like something tight and unsettled, something uncomfortably knotted loosens inside Ste's chest, and his stomach twists in that delightful way that sends sparks shooting through his hips and right down the length of his legs.

Brendan's mouth is warm and demanding yet soft, each stroke of his lips and touch of his tongue feels perfect and amazing and so,  _so_  good. It's with the sinful flick of Brendan's tongue and the clamp of his teeth on Ste's bottom lip that he realises just how much he's missed this, and the realisations hits hard with a bone-crushing weight. He's only had this once before, but it feels like something he could easily become addicted to - if he isn't already.

What is it they say? A taste of honey is worse than none at all.

Ste breaks it off, leaning his forehead against Brendan's with his eyes closed. He can feel Brendan's gaze on him, the tightening grip of the man's hands voicing his curiosity, his doubt.

"This all it's gonna be, huh?" Ste asks breathlessly, voice a quiet disturbance against the silence, "A quick grope and some stolen kisses in the dark where no one's watching. That what it's like for you, huh? Is that what it means to be out, but not proud? You're standing in the closet with the doors open and the lights off, Brendan."

Brendan's grip on him tightens even more, a considerable amount, his fingertips undoubtedly pressing bruises into the flesh of Ste's hips.

"I don't want that, Brendan. I don't even know what I am, but I know what I want. And I don't want a dirty little secret."

Brendan turns him onto his back, settles above him with one hand on his hip and the other behind Ste's head, balancing himself with his forearm, and he leans down into Ste's space, hips flush against Ste's and lips almost touching,  _almost_ , so close but not close enough.

"You want me," Brendan whispers, capturing Ste's bottom lip between his own and sucking lightly. Ste rolls up against him on instinct, groins grinding hard. He lets out a broken little whimper, Brendan's answering shudder and groan making his heart thump wildly.

"Not like this," He says anyway, defiant, "I'm not gonna be your toy."

Brendan laughs, mirthless, a quiet rush of breath against Ste's lips.

"You think I can be what you're looking for? What you need? You're wrong. I'm only good for this."

Ste wants to say how that's bullshit, how Brendan can be so much more if he believes, even for a second, that he's worth the chance, that he's worthy of trying to make himself better than he is; he wants to tell him how he'd be there for him, how he doesn't think Brendan is worthless and that he shouldn't think so lowly of himself.

What he says instead is, "I hate you."

Brendan kisses him hard, pins his wrists above his head with one hand and uses the other to pull Ste harder against him by his hips, grinds into him, whispers "Me too," before slipping his tongue into Ste's mouth.

Ste's powerless to stop him, finds that he doesn't want to, and doesn't protest when Brendan wraps his legs around his waist and carries him into his bedroom, the door closed and locked behind them.

The breath rushes out of him as he's dumped unceremoniously onto the bed: can't find it in him to care much when Brendan cages him with his limbs and sucks bruises into the skin of Ste's neck, lips and tongue and teeth setting his nerves on fire and sending his blood rushing down to his groin.

He clutches desperately at the lapels of Brendan's blazer, threads the fingers of his free hand through the man's hair and tugs, rolls his hips up as he keeps the man's face against his neck, never wants him to stop, never wants to lose the feeling of Brendan claiming him, marking him up, making him his.

"Too many clothes," He gasps out, shoving his hands inside Brendan's blazer and pushing it off his shoulders, down his arms. Brendan helps him take it off, kisses him while Ste gets to work on the buttons of his shirt.

When it's off, and Ste's hands are against the hot flesh of Brendan's chest, it's better than anything he's ever imagined, ever had before. The muscles are hard, twitching beneath Ste's fingertips, and covered by soft skin.

He looks his fill, feels breathless with pure lust, that tug of passion, desire,  _want_. There's a scattering of dark hair that spreads over the expanse of Brendan's chest and thins out considerably beneath it, faintly travelling down the ridge between his abs 'til it thickens at his navel and dips below his waistband.

On the left side of his chest, above where his heart would be, there's a small tattoo, a Chinese symbol, Ste thinks. He doesn't know what it's supposed to mean, or if it means anything at all. Brendan's left deltoid homes the ink of a name: Kayla. Ste wants to ask about it, but not now. He'll ask later... maybe. On Brendan's other arm is a large cross tattoo that takes up most of his deltoid and the top of his bicep. Ste finds he's suddenly developed a bit of a thing for tattoos.

Brendan dips down and kisses him softer this time, more slowly, lets Ste's hands map out his body.

When he places his hand on Brendan's stomach, he can feel the way the man's abs contract with every breath. When he slides his palms around his ribs, he can feel the way they expand, dips his fingers into the ridges, thumbs under the juts. His shoulders are taut, muscles straining as the man keeps himself poised above Ste. He places one hand over Brendan's heart and smiles a little at the way it hammers behind the ribs, beneath his palm.

Large, warm hands skirt up his sides, taking his shirt with them, and Ste lifts his arms for Brendan to rid him of it. He wants Brendan's skin against his own. Right now. Pulls the man down and moans softly at the warmth covering him as Brendan's tongue finds the pulse point in his neck, travelling 'til his teeth can bite down on the juncture of his shoulder, sinking into the muscle, presenting a whole other world of pleasure Ste never knew existed. His shoulders. Apparently that's a thing.

"You've never done this before, have you," Brendan states more than asks. Ste just shakes his head, gripping at Brendan's shoulders and wordlessly asking for more. "How do you want it?"

And isn't that a loaded question. All of a sudden, all Ste can think about is having Brendan all over him, inside him, fucking him into the mattress. This body, the one he's thought of so often, the one that can ruin him, is right above him, available for him. He wants to fuck.

"I want you to fuck me."

Ste bucks as Brendan digs his nails into the sides of his hips. A shiver runs down his spine, the way Brendan growls slightly giving him a pleasant chill. Brendan works him out of his jeans, strips himself of those ass-and-thigh-hugging slacks. They're so much closer all of a sudden, barely any material between them.

Ste runs his hands along muscular thighs, feels the coarse hair tickle between his fingers.

When Brendan dips his hand below the waistband of Ste's boxers and pulls them off, wraps his long fingers around the length of him when they're aside, Ste writhes, whimpers with the surprise of it.

Brendan works him languidly, loose on the way down, tighter on the way up, twisting a little at the head. Fuck. Nothing's ever felt this good before.

Soft-skinned, small hands, more familiar with the curl of two fingers to their own body instead of a firm clutch on another, really can't compare to the feel of large, slightly calloused ones that know exactly what feels good.

Ste rakes his nails down the milky flesh of Brendan's shoulders and back, hooks his fingers into the waistband of Brendan's boxers and pushes them down below his arse, then moves his hands to Brendan's front and frees his erection.

He can't see it: wants to, badly, but Brendan is covering him, working him near-mindless. It's all he can do to get his hand around it, work Brendan like the man is working him. He gasps at the feel of it, long, thick and heavy in his palm, pulsing in his palm, the flesh hot.

He figured he'd feel more embarrassed, be more hesitant. He's never been with a man before. All he's had is his and Brendan's quick get off against the God damn car in the club's drop off yard, and a single date. This is all new, on an entirely different level. He thought he might find it weird, or end up changing his mind. It's not though, and he isn't. It feels... right, somehow. He just knows where to put his hands, knows where he wants to put them, and follows the instinct. It feels amazing to be covered like this. Even if Brendan wasn't as tall and broad as he is, his entire aura is imposing and smothering; but it's good, feels natural somehow, to have a man's large frame hovering above him. Or maybe just this man.

This man that makes noises that are almost soundless, little hitches and cut off gasps. It's the single most erotic thing Ste's ever heard in his life.

Their foreheads meet, noses touching, and then Brendan's tongue is in his mouth, the onslaught of a rough, desperate kiss sending Ste's brain into a mess of white noise and pleasure. Lips trail to his collar bone, skin cold where Brendan's mouth had made it hot before, and teeth graze the jut of the bone.

"Brendan- please-" He says, not entirely sure what he's asking for. Brendan seems to understand though, says "Yeah," and then he's spreading Ste's legs and slotting himself between them, pulling open the bedside drawer and placing lube and a condom on the bed.

"Easier on your front," Brendan tells him, then grabs him by the hips and manhandles him onto his front. He kind of loves this, how Brendan's strong enough to move him where he wants him, as if he's weightless. He radiates power.

There's hands on his cheeks, spreading them. He can feel himself tensing up, nerves suddenly kicking in. This is it. This is actually happening.

"It won't hurt if you relax."

He tries, he really does, but he can't.

Brendan kisses along the back of Ste's shoulders. Soft, open-mouthed kisses that leave fires behind in their wake. His skin feels like it's burning everywhere Brendan touches, and he almost doesn't notice the tip of a slicked finger against his hole. He gasps at the intrusion as the digit pushes inside, surprisingly smoothly.

"Clever tactic," He breathes, forcing himself into relaxing again. Brendan doesn't laugh, but he huffs in a way that makes it sound like he's amused. Ste counts it as a win anyway.

It doesn't hurt like he was expecting it to. It's a strange, foreign feeling, but not unpleasant. It's actually kind of nice. His dick is still hard, so that has to count for something.

At the press of a second finger, he expects to feel some kind of pain. But again, it doesn't hurt. It's a stretch, but it's fine.

It's the third finger that sends a twinge through his body. Ste winces. It doesn't feel quite as good now.

Brendan's there immediately, hushing him and kissing his nape, using his free hand to stroke Ste's flagging erection into hardness again. Brendan curls his fingers, and it's like something inside him sparks up.

"Oh fuck-" He gasps, tilting his hips back into it. Brendan bites down on the juncture of his shoulder again. Hard. While he massages that spot inside Ste, and tightens his grip on Ste's cock. It's so fucking good.

"Brendan- Brendan- shit- Oh my God-"

He feels like sobbing when Brendan takes his fingers away, removes his hand. But then there's a tell-tale crinkle, and he's suddenly overwhelmed by nervous excitement again. Brendan drags him up to his hands and knees, grips his hips and guides himself in.

He arches against Brendan when the man pushes inside the first bit, and his body is trying to reject it. It stings a little, the blunt head feeling impossibly huge.

Brendan's slow and careful with him, and the pain is slowly ebbing away, changing into something else. Ste bites down on the duvet, doesn't know whether he wants to cry or cry out. Brendan's big, and so fucking hard, and nothing has ever felt this way before.

Those large hands that were breaking him apart only moments ago hook over his shoulders, forearms underneath, and hold him together, keep him in place; and Brendan comes down over his back, then pulls his hips back before pushing inside again, slow and deep and measured.

There's a shift in angle and suddenly Brendan is nudging that spot inside of him again and again, and Ste can't help the, "Fuck," that he utters, breathless and weak to his own ears. In response, Brendan nips at the hinge of his jaw, kisses his pulse point, then lifts up again and takes a steady hold of Ste's hips to really start fucking him.

It's hard and it's fast, probably more rough than a first time should be, and the only thing Ste can think is how amazing this all is, and how badly he needs to come. He's blindly grabbing for something, needs to anchor himself. He finds Brendan's hip, grabs on, digs in.

Part of him expects for it to all come crashing down, for him to realise what a mistake this is going to turn out to be, for him to remember what Brendan is really like, that this isn't something that he'll ever get more of.

It doesn't though, none of that sinks in. His focus is entirely on the heady buzz of pleasure coursing through his veins beneath his too-hot skin, around his burning muscles.

Each sob that punches out of him feels like blurting out long buried secrets; he doesn't want to admit to them, but the relief feels far too good.

It's when Brendan reaches round to stroke him in time with every thrust that it all ties together, a moment of burning hot ecstasy and a tightness in his every limb that feels like captivity, before an explosive release rattles his body and he's crying out, clenching down, the sound of Brendan's groan, the vibration of it where it's muffled against his shoulder blade, following him into consuming oblivion.

Awareness comes to him slowly, informing him that at some point he collapsed and Brendan joined him. There's a hot wall of muscle lined along his back, and he clings to the hand that at some point found its way into his own, fingers locked together, interlaced like their limbs and the beat of their hearts.

Neither of them move, and for a moment it feels like this could be something more. But this isn't anything romantic, he knows, for as much as it feels it in the afterglow. He's just another notch on Brendan's bedpost, and Brendan is just the man he met a few weeks ago that he'll never really have and isn't he wants to.

It feels like the beginning of the end - without the story to go before it.

* * *

Over the course of the next week, Ste finds himself listening to a lot of Placebo and working just as much. He sees Amy and the kids once, and he ends up bumping into Todd while the man's on his break which results in a mini-date. They eat sandwiches and drink coffee at the café.

It hits Ste hard on a Friday morning before his appointment just how grown-up his life has seemingly become.

He's got kids that he sees once or twice a week, that he provides money for. He's friendly with their mother, mature about their relationship with each other. No pining, no being complicated, no issues.

He has a stable job that he actually cares about, something full-time that gives him enough money to pay his board, buy things he wants, and support his kids. There's no thieving now, no paper rounds, no Saturday jobs. It's serious, adult work.

He has a nice place to live that he shares with his adult friends, where they eat around a dinner table and share stories with each other about the latest workplace gossip or complain to each other about increasing taxes and annoying pre-teens loitering on the car parks of their businesses.

He's attending therapy on his own, to better himself, without anybody needing to remind him or force him into it. He's talking about his problems like a responsible, head-strong man.

He's going on real, adult dates where there's plans made and conversation and texting and code of conduct that reads: dress to impress.

As a teenager, all of his dates hadn't really been dates, as teen dates never really seem to be. Dating somebody meant already being in a relationship, and you'd go to the park together or the cinema, unplanned, uncaring, dressed in whatever you found in your wardrobe that wasn't too scruffy. You'd go to whoever's house didn't have the nosey parents lurking about because they were at work or clubbing, and get each other off and eventually have sex.

Now, dating is the trial before the relationship, where you make plans, dress up, and don't touch each other outside of hugs, hand-holding and maybe small kisses.

It's not as if he hadn't noticed the changes in his life, he's just never really analysed them before. And this is why. Because right now he feels like he's a breath away from hyperventilating. His skin feels prickly and the knot in the pit of his stomach reaches up and sticks in his throat, too.

It's stupid, he thinks, to feel this way. It's stupid to suddenly be encompassed by panic over something so normal, something that's been so good for him. But he can't help it.

His whole life has been chaotic, a disorderly mess of too-young-fatherhood, abusive parents, the wrong friends and petty crime.

Now that he actually has something orderly and normal and healthy, it feels like it's too much. Is he really capable of dealing with all this responsibility, or is he just fooling himself?

What if he's been sinking the whole time and nobody's told him?

What if they're all just pretending for his sake, mothering from the sidelines without his awareness to keep him from screwing everything up?

"Breathe with me, Ste, come on, breathe with me, listen to my voice."

There's a hand over his, and his palm is resting against a flat chest, rising and falling with someone's every intake and release of breath. There's a heartbeat steadily thudding where his fingertips lie. There's a voice soothing him.

"You're okay, you're fine, just breathe with me, c'mon, calm down, you're okay, you're fine, just breathe," the man is saying.

When his vision comes back to him, Ste looks up at Nate. Teal coloured eyes look unblinkingly into his own.

"What was that?" Ste asks, still a little dizzy.

He's on the sofa, with no idea how he got there. There's a damp flannel on his forehead and his lungs and throat sting.

"That was a panic attack," Nate tells him, letting Ste's hand fall free and sitting next to him. Ste remains quiet, looks at him. Nate shrugs with an empathetic smile. "I used to get them all the time, when I was a kid. I was very close to my sister, and she died when I was thirteen. Not very fun, are they?"

Ste shakes his head. No, they certainly are not.

"How long was I..?"

"Only a couple of minutes," Nate assures him. "They don't last very long, not usually. They're more likely to last if you're alone, however, with no one to guide you out of them. Luckily I was around. If you're prone to them, you're not allowed to drive and you shouldn't be on your own whenever you feel worked up or under a lot of pressure. Sometimes people black out completely and it can be dangerous. Since this isn't a regular occurence for you, I think you'll be just fine. Do you still want to go to your appointment? You don't have to if you're feeling unsteady."

"No, no, I'll go."

Nate gives him a friendly smile and pushes up off the sofa, holding out a hand.

"C'mon," He says, "I'll give you a ride."

* * *

When Ste sits down, the first thing Lucy does is hand him several sheets of paper. They're all about controlling anger and dealing with anxiety, and they're all double-sided. She's printed them out on yellow paper, at least. But damn.

_Controlling Anger_

_What is anger?_

_Avoiding the Consequences of Anger_

_Understanding Anger_

_G.A.D - What is Generalised Anxiety Disorder?_

_Changing How You Think_

_Positive Thinking_

"Uh, this is a lot to read," He comments, unsure. Lucy nods. "You do remember I have dyslexia, right?"

"You're dyslexic but you can still read, Ste. You read Oliver Twist when you were fifteen, you can read some sheets that'll help you to understand and control your anger."

"You're giving me like twenty sides' worth of reading to do. I'll probably get frustrated with myself and rip them up," He frowns.

"You don't have to read them, Ste, but they're there to help you. If you don't take the time out to read them and help yourself, then that's your problem. This isn't like school where the homework is mandatory - it's not, and it's your choice to do it; but you know how it is like school? It's like school because I can only do so much for you, and if you can't be bothered to make the effort then you're not going to achieve anything. You're doing this because you want to get better, and because you want to be able to be someone to your kids that your own parents never could be to you. So you either do it or you don't, but don't waste my time complaining about something that benefits you."

"I'm not wasting your time," He tells her.

"Good."

He likes the way that Lucy is stern with him, that she doesn't take it easy on him because he's had a rough childhood and a troubled start to adulthood. She doesn't take any of his shit, can be downright unprofessional at times. It makes her relatable.

"So, how have you been this past week?" She asks, moving swiftly on.

His thoughts go to Brendan almost immediately. When it comes to Brendan, this past week has probably been the most difficult week of his life. There's this emptiness, this longing inside of him whenever he sees him. And to Brendan, it's like Ste doesn't even exist anymore. He doesn't even look at him.

It fucking hurts. A lot more than it should. It's like something's tearing at his insides, shredding his core - constant, agonising pain. He feels close to tears whenever he thinks about it, that familiar pinch behind his eyes and the sickening tightness of his throat, the way it becomes hard to swallow or even take a breath without a stutter. Every beat of his heart around Brendan feels like a kick to his ribs, the broken bones puncturing his lungs and making it hard to breathe, like drowning from the inside.

He knew it was going to be a mistake and he did it anyway.

But he can't tell her that. He can't find it in himself to admit that he slept with a man he's been developing feelings for, for quite some time now, even though he knew it wouldn't be anything other than what it was, that it wouldn't turn into something more, on the same night that he'd just gotten back from a date with a perfectly nice guy. He feels guilty and used and pathetic.

So he doesn't mention anything that's happened over the past week, like the way he can suddenly relate to a number of songs by his new favourite band; that his new favourite band is a band that Brendan introduced him to in his fancy car that time he took him for something to eat; how he's falling hard and way too fast for a man that does nothing but emotionally torture him.

Instead, he just tells her about today. He tells her about his panic attack. He thinks of how his life has changed so much, and how much that terrifies him.

"I had my first panic attack today," He tells her. She simply quirks an eyebrow, indicating for him to go on. "Nate helped me. I don't remember what happened during it, I just know that he told me I was out of it for a couple of minutes. He said he used to have them when he was a kid, back when his sister died. He knows a lot about them. It was... scary. I had no idea what was happening to me, y'know? I mean, you hear people talking about them, describing things like feeling claustrophobic n' stuff, but I guess you don't really understand until you've had one for yourself."

Lucy takes notes, like usual, nodding along every now and then.

"It was your first, huh?"

Ste nods.

"Do you know what caused it?" Lucy asks. He nods, laughing self-deprecatingly.

"It was stupid, really. I was thinkin' 'bout how much me life has changed, y'know? Like, all of a sudden all the chaos and the struggle went away and I suddenly have this normal, grown-up life. I'm an adult all of a sudden. It all seems a little too good to be true, y'know? Like it's not my life anymore, or like it's all too easy, or maybe things aren't as they seem and I've been tricking myself. I guess I'm kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop."

He shrugs a little at the end, awkwardly avoiding Lucy's gaze. She remains silent for a moment before tilting her head and giving him this look that he's come to name as her  _assessing look_. It's like she's weighing up everything about you, drawing conclusions and figuring out the way your mind works from a single steady gaze. It's unnerving.

"Do you want the psychologist's perspective?" She asks. Ste meets her eyes.

"Yes."

"It's not stupid to panic about something like that, Ste. Everyone panics over different things. It's very normal to worry about things like change, but change is something we all go through and that we all have to deal with.

"You have to remember as well, Ste, that none of this was sudden. The things in your life may have come a little quicker to you than they might have done to someone else, but that's simply because you have a good unit around you.

"You were on the streets for days first of all, and then you were taken in by a friend. You couldn't see your kids until you got yourself a job and attended therapy, and that took you a long time. You spent three weeks job hunting, and then had your first session some days later. That's not a sudden change, that's progression. You're doing well, Ste. You've worked hard to get to where you are now.

"Yes, a lot has changed. You're living society's definition of a normal life, and it's good for you. You've got a stable job, a place to live, kids you see every week and a strong unit of friends. But that part about being an adult all of a sudden? You've been an adult for a long time Ste, long before your eighteenth birthday. Maybe you acted immaturely, did wrong things, but there's a difference between adulthood and being mature.

"You brought yourself up, Ste. You put in the extra effort at school despite everything, taught yourself what you needed to know to pass, and even though you slipped up sometimes you still grew up before your time. Even adults make mistakes, make errors, do wrongs. It's about what you do afterwards that counts. You didn't suddenly become an adult, Ste. You just matured. You got a little smarter, a little wiser, a little more responsible. You got a little stronger. You gained a little more control. The other shoe has dropped - the first took you down some rocky paths, the second guided you onto level ground."

Lucy is smiling at him, the soft upturn of her lips and the sincerity in her eyes is heart-warming. Does what she's saying make sense? Yes. But does that mean the anxiety has been left behind? God no. He feels like he's driving. The SatNav just told him that he's carrying on straight, but for all the SatNav can tell him maybe there's a car pulling out when he's not looking. Maybe he's about to crash.

"What about your perspective, not the psychologist's?" He asks. Lucy smirks.

"The same. Except with more cussing and imperatives."

He allows himself to laugh at that one, before turning serious again.

"What if it just gets worse? What if everything is fine now, but something happens. What if it all goes back to the way it was? What if this time, instead of just some things, I lose everything, and this time I can't get it back?"

Lucy sets aside her notepad and pen for a moment, putting it on the coffee table in front of her. She leans forwards, resting on her knees.

"There's a quote by Winston Churchill that says: 'Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts'. You keep going, Ste. You keep going and if you're struggling then you keep going, and if you're happy then you keep going, and if you're lonely then you keep going. You continue, because you have more courage, more strength, more determination than you give yourself credit for."


	9. Chapter 9

"I don't know, ask Brady," Warren smirks teasingly, giving Brendan a little shoulder nudge.

Brendan sighs, long-suffering, and gives Warren a small shove that almost has him collapsing into a rack of clothes.

It’s a Saturday where Brendan doesn’t have work and Warren has no plans, which means they’re being metaphorically dragged by their scruffs to shop with Mitzeee.

"No, Anne, certainly do not _ask Brady_ ," He says on an exasperated exhale.

Mitzeee just gives him a devious little grin, looking positively delighted, because apparently Brendan's friends have decided that it must be ‘ _pick-on-Brendan-and-make-queer-jokes’_ day. He needs new friends, since his are such horrible, horrible people.

"Yeah, c'mon Brendan, you're well dressed, I reckon you've got an eye for fashion. At least that's what the stereotype says," Mitzeee winks exaggeratedly. Brendan scoffs.

"Oh, we're going off stereotypes now are we? Okay then. In that case, shouldn't you be working your corner right now?"

Mitzeee snorts and pats his cheek patronizingly. Warren, typically, just watches on amused whilst eating something. Always eating something is Warren; a sandwich or a burger or a lollypop or chips. Brendan's not much better, but Warren could use the cut back. Brendan has a high metabolism and actually knows what the inside of the gym looks like; _Warren_ _does_ _not_.

Brendan doesn't know how he finds himself in these situations so often, really. It's a little bewildering. It seems at least every other week he'll find himself and Warren tagging along behind Mitzeee as she shops for more and more clothes and shoes and accessories – as if she could need any more than she already has, _really_.

"You're cute when you think you're being funny, babe," She teases him. Brendan just rolls his eyes.

"Cute isn't exactly the word I'd use to describe myself," Brendan tilts his head, giving Warren a little smirk. "Handsome, strong, perhaps a little aggressive, amazing in bed..."

Mitzeee looks him up and down, a playful grin on her cherry painted lips.

"Mm," She agrees, "And falsely egotistical, and actually secretly a sweetheart. It's a shame _this_ ," - she gestures toward her body - "doesn't do it for you. That," - she gives him another once over - "definitely does it for me."

Warren looks affronted. Brendan can't think of a decent reply.

"No..." He says intelligently. Anne winks at him again, always doing it, and saunters off to hunt out more A-line dresses.

Brendan looks at Warren, a little nonplussed.

Normally, Mitzeee tells him he's a cocky little shit and isn't half as good looking as he thinks.

Warren just shrugs. The woman must be changing her tactics – interesting. The joke's on her, however. He's still not buying her shit for her. (He absolutely _is_ buying her shit for her. When does Mitzeee not get what she wants?)

They spend about another hour milling around the shopping centre until Mitzeee finally declares that she's done, which roughly translates to: I'll be expecting your company again in a fortnight and there will be consequences should one of you fail to show up without legitimate reasoning.

"What would you boys like to do now?" She asks, spinning around gracefully to look at them. Gracefully, because of course she isn't carrying _a single one_ of her bags. Warren exchanges a look with Brendan, who then turns to Mitzeee.

"We boys would like you to take a couple of your bags, and then we'd like to go to the library," Brendan drawls, forcing two bags into Mitzeee's hands and being generous enough to haul the remaining three. She pouts when Warren does the same.

"Sigh, sigh," She mocks, "Whatever happened to gentlemen?"

"Bitches like you corrupted them," Warren smirks, quirking an eyebrow. Brendan snorts and leaves them to it, far more interested in the books lining the library's window.

This place is nice, he thinks. It's recently opened, only been in business for about a week. It's not a library so much as a book store with a sitting area that has sofas and beanbags and a couple of small coffee tables for people to sit back and relax with a book if they wish. The bookshelves are floor to ceiling with rolling ladders, the walls are shades of brown, hazel and burnt red, and there's a hot drinks machine in the back corner. The air is thick with the aroma of fresh paper, faint ink, leather spines and cheap coffee.

He skims and scans along the isles, finds the General Fiction section and begins browsing.

As a young child, one of Brendan's favourite things to do was read - something which has followed him throughout his whole life, even to this day. His mother used to read to him all of the time: children's classics like Little Red Riding Hood, Peter Pan, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, The Secret Garden...

Brendan had never been happier in his life than when his mother was alive.

Growing up, he'd always known there was something missing from his life. Whereas boys his own age would be picked up from school by both of their parents, Brendan left with just his mother; boys his age were taken to the park by their dads and cooked for by their mothers, but his mother did both; boys his age played football with their dads and bonded over supporting teams, but Seamus didn't spend any time with him and his mother wasn't interested in football.

It wasn't difficult however, by any means. Just because he knew there was something less about his family, something different, something missing, didn't mean he felt its absence. How could he miss what he'd never had?

Brendan valued time with his mother dearly, loved every second they spent together, reading or drawing and going for long walks and seeking out birds and weird insects.

When she died, him the tender age of eight years-old, her far too young to pass away, it ripped something inside him apart.

Night after night, he'd have nightmares. He'd see her there, convinced she was real, always trying to reach out, to touch her; but he never could. There were two dreams in particular that he remembers to this day, ones that would haunt him even when daylight said the darkness could be escaped for a while. He still has them sometimes.

The first, he'd find himself in a back garden. It'd always be mildly sunny, always with the exact same thing happening. He'd always start in the same place, in the same spot, on the pink slab amidst grey and tan ones. Plant pots with single sunflowers, a little like Bill and Ben, would be lined up on the floor beneath the window sill. Inside the window, he'd see the kitchen. It wasn't even his house in the dream; he never figured out who it belonged to, he just kept finding himself there. It reminded him slightly of the small back garden of his grandparent’s old house on an estate.

His mother's face would pop up from under the flowers, her head pushing them up out of the pots like a game of Whack-A-Mole then disappear into the dirt again. She'd play this game with him, appear in different plant pots and disappear again 'til it got to the point where he was crying in his frustration, in his desperation.

The dream never changed, she always popped up in the same flower pots in the same sequence at the exact same time, every time. But like all the other times he'd experienced the dream, he could never predict what he knew, and he could never catch her.

It'd end with her finally, finally appearing, full-bodied and as beautiful and radiant as he'd remembered her before chemotherapy took its toll, and she'd hold him close and hug him and pet his hair and kiss his forehead. Clinging on tight, he'd feel content and happy to just remain there, cuddled close in her arms, face buried in the soft cotton of her long sleeve t-shirt, inhaling the comforting scent of her perfume and home baking and detergent. For a moment, things would all be okay.

And then she'd ascend, still holding him, and when she'd try to let go he'd scream, cry, beg her to stay, refuse to let go, clinging for dear life, suspended in mid-air, trying to stop her from leaving him again, from going back to heaven. She always did make it though, and it was feeling alone at the end of it that had him waking up in tears.

The second dream was far less emotional torture yet far more terrifying. In this dream, he'd run, as fast as he possibly could, but never quite fast enough, only ever one step ahead and growing more and more exhausted, as Death chased him with his disgusting, wretched face down an endless corridor of blackness... pure darkness... nothing there but matter and empty space. It extended on, and on, and on, and on, and on – an abyssal corridor.

And then all of a sudden Brendan's life was being transferred to Belfast, where he met his little sister Cheryl and her mother, Margaret. As it turned out, Seamus had a lady on the side and another daughter that neither Brendan nor his mother knew about. He may have been young, but he understood full-well. He hated Cheryl and her mother at first, and his father who, until that day, he’d never thought really anything of, became someone he grew to resent.

Then soon enough, it became hard to hate the only people in his life that weren't causing hurting him like daddy was. There was no room for resentment, just pure mortal terror. So Brendan got back into reading and drawing, did his homework like a good boy, and spent all the time he could with his step-mother and his half-sister. Nightmares became a rarity, because how could you have nightmares if you were barely sleeping? And when he did sleep, he was often too tired to have dreams or nightmares he could remember in the morning, semi-comatose, 'til he awoke the next day and wished he could be as dead to the world then as he was when he slept.

As much as Seamus left Brendan alone before his mother had died, it was as if the man suddenly couldn't ever leave him be, a constant lingering shadow; whoever told Brendan there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark had been wrong, so very wrong. Everything evil lurked in the dark. His father lurked in bedroom corners when the sun went down. Brendan knew enough about God to know that his father was a sinner, was evil; but he also knew enough about Seamus to know that he couldn't do anything about it.

Now, as he rifles through books and ghosts his fingertips over interesting titles, Brendan's life consists of business, books, family and occasional hook-ups. Warren and Mitzeee he's willing to consider as siblings. For all that they don't know about him, they haven't shied away from what they do know about him and they’ve stuck by him through a lot of shit already.

His father, although gone, remains an ever-looming presence in every decision he makes, in every dream he has. But it's the knowledge that his father _is_ gone now, at least physically, mortally, that allows him to keep going for his sister and kids.

Although he frequently ponders on the idea that they might be better off without him around.

* * *

 

When Brendan was a kid, his mother once took him out of school under the premise of a hospital appointment that in actual fact turned out to be a trip to the beach because his hamster had recently died and his best friend at the time left him for some other boy who had more Wacky Packages than he did.

They walked along the shoreline with ice creams in their hands and threw the pebbles from the sand into the choppy water. Typically, it wasn't very hot; Dublin, after all, rarely saw the sun. Brendan had been snugly wrapped in his coat and scarf, a woolly beanie with a bobble on top secure on his head. His mother wore her usual long winter coat, grey and lined on the inside coming halfway down her calves, with a ridiculously patterned scarf, reminding him of the 4th Doctor.

For a couple of hours, it was if the rest of the world didn't exist. He'd babble on about what he was learning in school, the latest episode of Doctor Who or Top Cat, and ask on more than one occasion what was for dinner that night because he kept forgetting moments after she told him. In their little bubble, there were no dead pets, no disloyal friends, and he remembers the way his mother would laugh at him when he said something particularly amusing: crinkles at the corners of her eyes and deep dimples in her rose-flushed cheeks, blue-green eyes glittering with mirth.

Brendan remembers looking out across the sea, seeing the froth of the tide... deep and rich and enticing, the fresh turquoise tint to it... and thinking the colour mimicked that of his mother's irises; when he was old enough to distinguish more than just the primary and secondary colours, old enough to learn the many different ways people had of describing things like eyes and fabrics and wall paints, he concluded that his father's eyes were like murky ice – cold, chilling and pale – while he named the colour of his mother's eyes "sea foam" – bright, glittering and beautiful.

He hasn't been to the beach in nineteen years.

* * *

 

All Ste can think about at the moment, aside from Brendan, is how thankful he is that his work hours are back to normal now, him working 10 AM 'til 8 PM again. As much as he loves his job, working the extra hours he was at the start was getting the better of him. He doesn't have to skip work for appointments or Amy's demands anymore, so he can work his usual nine hours + 1 hour break again.

"You seem a little distracted," Todd frowns.

Ste blinks, shakes his head with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, no, there's just been a lot on my mind," He admits, gnawing at his nails nervously. Todd considers him for a moment before nodding slowly.

"You know," He says, "It is only the third date. I won't be offended if you don't want to be here, or if there's something going on that requires your attention more than I do. I'm a decent guy, I'll understand."

Ste considers it, he really does. With everything that's going on - his therapy, Brendan, working nine extremely busy hours Monday to Friday - the only free time he has are Saturdays, where he sees his kids and Amy. Sundays are his only entirely free days, and he doesn't have any guy-friends to hang out with, which are probably what he needs right now. He read it somewhere that to stay healthy, men need lads' nights at least once a week.

He doesn't really have the time for a relationship... and yet-

"No, no. I like you," Ste smiles, taking Todd's hand on top of the table, "Honestly, I do. C'mon, why don't we go somewhere else? A night club maybe, or... I don't know... somewhere else?"

Todd smiles brightly, like Ste's just given him something amazing; it makes him feel a little hollowed out, knowing that Todd is more invested in this than he is. It makes him feel like he's using the guy, which makes him feel like scum. He shouldn't continue this. His thoughts don't go to Todd when he's on his own, his dreams don't include the man sitting across from him - they include Brendan. This is wrong. Yet for some reason, it feels like he needs to continue. Like this might make things feel normal. Which it won't, and he knows it. But he carries on anyway. Ste thinks that if Brendan were here, if he could tell the man what was going through his head, Brendan would tell him something wise that he heard in one of those deep novels he reads, or learned from experience or school, or he’d say something witty instead of giving Ste a proper reply. It’s so Brendan, that just thinking about the possibility of it makes his chest hurt. He still doesn’t have an answer for why he feels this way so quickly. The best he can come up with is: it’s Brendan. And that isn’t an answer at all.

Or maybe it is. Maybe that’s the only explanation needed; though Ste thinks he might have to get to know the man a little better to make that call. Somehow, it feels like he’s known him for a year already.

* * *

 

Ste wakes up in the morning to find himself in another man’s bed – thankfully still mostly clothed – with the smell of coffee and syrup waffles wafting up his nose as the aroma diffuses from the kitchen. He’s got a huge hangover, and he doesn't think he’s had much sleep. He’s in boxers and a t-shirt, but he still checks around the room anyway just in case; there are no condoms anywhere, no lube, and his clothes are folded neatly; the bed sheets don’t smell of sex nor do they have any incriminating stains on them. In conclusion, all seems well.

With bleary eyes and a gurgling stomach, he drones his way into the kitchen groaning like a zombie.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Todd jokes, “How does it feel to join the land of the living?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Ste tells him, running off to find the bathroom.

Propped over the toilet, he hurls a gut-load into the bowl of it and narrowly misses a splash back of toilet water and vomit. Gross. Before he knows it, there’s a hand rubbing soothing circles on his back – or, they’re supposed to be soothing, he thinks; what they’re actually doing is making him feel worse.

“Please don’t...” He moans softly, wincing away from the touch. Even as a kid, if Pauline decided she was going to behave the smallest amount like an actual mother and he was sick, he couldn't appreciate the attention. Vomiting while someone strokes his back has always made him vomit even more, and he hates being sick. The burn in his throat afterwards makes him feel raw and wounded; he tends to mope with a sad look on his face, like a kicked puppy. It’s kind of pathetic.

“Okay,” Todd says easily, running his fingers through Ste’s hair before returning to the kitchen.

If anything, that just makes Ste feel even sicker. Todd is so, so _nice_ , and Ste’s just fucking him over completely by continuing with this. He’s not _that guy_ ; he doesn't do this kind of shit. So why is he doing it now? If anything, it just makes him think of Brendan again – as all things seem to do just lately – because he’s leading Todd on, the same way Brendan led him on.

He doesn't use mouthwash or toothpaste, read somewhere that it’s better to swill with water until later because brushing your teeth after being sick damages the enamel, or something along those lines, so he just puts his head under the tap and gargles before joining Todd in the kitchen. When he sits down with a plate of steaming waffles laid before him, giving Todd a gracious smile and thanks before tucking in, he looks around and finds he can really appreciate this kind of lifestyle: waking up in the morning after a night out, with his boyfriend in the kitchen making him breakfast, in a nice little place like this where the kitchen/dining room is an open area divided from a cosy living room by an elegant bar. He feels a little empty, hollow, knowing that Todd isn’t the man he’s seeing in those visions. It’s Brendan – stupid, undeserving Brendan. He hopes, maybe, in time, he’ll grow to love Todd as much as he’s infatuated with Brendan, and that it will be soon, because that’s all it is with Brendan, all it could possibly be: infatuation. How could he love a man he barely knows?

* * *

 

Brendan’s home when Ste gets back. Ste avoids him, goes for a shower instead.

When he’s out and dressed, Brendan is lounging on the sofa with his eyes closed, Placebo playing on the TV; it’s a live performance of “Teenage Angst”, Brixton ’98. It’s slower, softer, and more eerie. Ste’s grown to love this band that Brendan seems to be such a huge fan of, and he can more than appreciate the timbre of Brian’s voice.

He likes the song more than he wants to avoid Brendan right now; he sits down on the other sofa. Brendan doesn’t peep, doesn’t even stir. Okay then. Two can play at that game. If Brendan wants silence in all areas but music, that’s fine.

What Ste doesn’t expect, however, is to feel comfortable. He’s never been good at silence, always talking to fill the spaces, too awkward to let it linger, always needing to close the gaps. He’s left breathless with the realisation that this... this feels right. It’s ridiculously easy to share the same space at Brendan without talking, to just be there, breathing and listening to music with him, feeling content in a way he never has before. He’s quiet inside, peaceful. It’s strange – yet not disliked.

“How’s lover boy?” Brendan practically sneers a few moments later; it catches Ste by surprise, and then he feels angry.

“What’s with the tone?” He snaps. Brendan eyes him. “You don’t get to fucking ask me, nor do you get to voice your dislike. It’s your own fault I’m with someone else.”

He’s seen the way Brendan looks at him sometimes, knows that he’s wanted even if he’s not needed and he’s confident enough to say it out loud. Brendan’s mask slips on all of a sudden, but Ste knows the bullshit by now. It doesn’t faze him, doesn’t cut through him. It’s odd, how quickly he’s become accustomed to Brendan’s behaviour, how he’s so finely tuned with a man he barely knows that he can tell every little gesture for what it is, like the way the man’s top lip twitches when he’s uncomfortable and the little tick in his jaw when he’s angry; the furrow of his brow when he’s judging somebody and the heated look in his eyes when he sees something he likes.

“Cut the shit, Brendan,” He says coldly, “I know you well enough to know I’ve touched a nerve. You don’t like it, do you? Saying things directly, getting them out in the open.”

“You don’t know me,” Brendan glares.

“No, I don’t. You’re right. I barely know you. But I know parts of you, like the facades and the faces you make when you’re feeling a strong emotion. Like now, you’re in denial. You know what though, Brendan? I’ve got someone better than you. I don’t deserve denial.” Before Brendan can respond, he’s getting up and storming into his room.

Quietly, he locks his bedroom door and slides down to the floor; he thinks to himself, _I didn’t mean a word_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Todd;  
> Is this your inadvertent way of saying we’re boyfriends? I’m pretty sure it’s only couples that do double dates ha, ha.
> 
> Boyfriends with Todd; it doesn’t make his stomach flutter, or his heart beat faster – no, it makes him feel guilty and selfish.

  The kids come over the next Sunday. Amy arrives breathless, Lucas squirming irritably in her arms and Leah shouting loudly about wanting ice cream – screaming, actually. All Ste can think is that it’s coming up to the summer holidays now, that Leah might be spending more time with him and asking him for ice cream instead of Amy. He should probably be thinking about how tired Amy looks.

“Is everything alright?” He asks with a teasing smile. Amy glowers at him; it’s not the time for jokes, obviously, but it’s kind of hard not to. Her hair is in disarray, like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, her clothes are rumpled with spit stains on the shoulders from Lucas, and her eyes are wide and frustrated. It amuses him because she’s usually so well-kept and put together. She hands Lucas over to him hastily.

“Don’t even start with me, Steven Hay. Just take these kids away from me and I’ll collect them on Tuesday,” She pushes two hand luggage suitcases inside the doorway, “I have a business trip.”

“Amy!” Ste calls, but she’s already out of the door. He looks down at the kids, both of them now quiet, and sighs, frustrated. “What am I supposed to do with you two, eh?” He asks. He really doesn’t know. Amy’s just dumped him with two kids for three days when he has to work and Cheryl hasn’t deemed it okay to do so. “Okay...” He sighs, looking back into the house. “Ice cream, was it?” He asks Leah, who just nods with a small pout. With a roll of his eyes, he puts the cases to one side and shuts the door. “I think there’s some in the freezer...”

  At 3 O’clock, Brendan comes in with Mitzeee. When he sees the kids, he waves at them. Leah giggles and Lucas hides his face in Ste’s neck shyly. Mitzeee comes over and coos over them, which surprises Ste; she doesn’t look the type, but he lets her take Leah off him. He’s only had them for three hours and he’s done already. Then Brendan sees the cases, and suddenly Brendan’s tapping his shoulder and nodding towards Ste’s bedroom. Shit. Gulping, Ste removes an octopus Lucas from his side and follows Brendan to the bedroom.

“Suitcases,” Brendan states lowly by way of demanding answers. Ste swallows thickly and nods.

“I can explain,” He says quickly, “Amy dumped them on me saying something about a business trip and left before I could say anything. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do,” Ste sighs.

Brendan peers out of the room down the small corridor into the living room, where Mitzeee sits entertaining Leah and Lucas with her hair and nails.

“What are you gonna do about work, Steven? You’ve got two kids on your hands. How long is she away for?”

“Today, Monday and Tuesday,” Ste answers. Brendan growls under his breath and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Do they have everything they need?” He asks. Ste nods. “Well then I guess I’m playing babysitter, but if this happens again I’ll be having a word with your Amy, Steven. She shouldn’t be walking all over ye like she owns ye, understood?”

To say he’s lost for words is an understatement; he can’t actually believe what he’s hearing.

“What,” He says dumbly. Brendan heaves a sigh and rolls his eyes skyward.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” He mutters under his breath. He fixes Ste with a disdainful look before continuing. “I’ve got kids, too, Steven. They can stay. Just don’t expect me to look after them all the time, okay? You need to work, Cheryl needs to work, and I can bring my paperwork home. Just don’t expect it all the time Amy needs something.”

Well, how can he argue with that?

* * *

  That night, Lucas is screaming. Amy warned him about this, that his little boy has night terrors. There’s no explanation for them, really, and it breaks Ste’s heart to think that his little boy has such vile dreams that he wakes up in the middle of the night, howling his little heart out, throat raw, with tears streaming down his rosy, flushed cheeks.

Tiredly, he gets up from the sofa and heads to his bedroom, where Leah and Lucas are sharing his bed. Leah’s already up, crying next to her brother; it’s no good for either of them.

What surprises Ste, though, is the dark silhouette on the bed next to where Lucas is sobbing. Ste watches with a gentle sort of avidness, as Brendan combs his fingers through Lucas’ hair and murmurs comfort to him. His heart clenches painfully in his chest at the sight, unwelcome thoughts of having a future like this with Brendan filling his mind: taking it in turns to wake up for the kids, making hot chocolate in the middle of the night when one or all of them can’t sleep, snuggling together with a story book to send the kids off to sleep again before leaving the room to curl up in their own bed.

Brendan’s got an arm around Leah, too, but his focus is on Lucas, so Ste goes over and takes Leah from Brendan’s loose grip and soothes her, and he and Brendan make eye contact for a prolonged moment before Brendan looks back at Lucas again and scoops the little boy into his arms, cradles him to his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world to him. Ste didn’t get to see Brendan with his kids a whole lot for the time they were over, and it’s mostly his own fault; now he wishes he had, because it’s a sight he’s sure he’d love to see. If Brendan’s this good with Ste’s kids, then he must be amazing with his own.

It’s a few moments more, but eventually Lucas settles down and resigns to quietly snuffling into Brendan’s t-shirt. Leah’s already gone, making light little snoring noises that sound more like soft gasps. Ste tucks her into bed again; Brendan does the same with Lucas minutes later.

They leave the bedroom together, and Brendan looks at him silently. They’re standing a few inches apart, and Brendan isn’t looking at his lips or his bare chest, but straight into his eyes; there’s a ribbon of moonlight exposing Brendan’s features, everything is quiet, and it feels oddly intimate, this moment between them; the darkness gives the allusion of complete privacy, like they’re the only people in the world, and it feels sort of dreamlike. Ste finds himself glued in place, staring back. It should be awkward, but it’s not; he finds that he doesn’t want to disturb the atmosphere.

“Do you want a drink?” Brendan murmurs quietly, and his voice sounds so right like this, melting into the velvet night like it belongs there, hidden in the dark. It chills Ste’s spine – not unpleasantly.

Ste finds himself thinking about their little tiff last Sunday, where Ste had called Brendan on his bullshit and they’d fallen out in a matter of seconds. He wonders how it can be so easy for them all of a sudden, when neither of them has apologised; he wonders if this is what it’s like when you love someone, how something they do can be overlooked so easily; but he and Brendan don’t love each other – or maybe Ste might love Brendan, and that’s the problem. He doesn’t want to love Brendan, isn’t even sure if he does or not, and he knows that unless Brendan can figure his shit out that nothing could ever come of them anyway.

But he thinks fuck it, and says, “Okay,” just as quiet.

He follows Brendan into the kitchen, sits at the table while Brendan turns on the kettle and grabs two mugs.

“Do you drink flavoured tea?” Brendan asks him.

“Never tried it,” Ste shrugs. Brenan considers him for a moment.

“Do you want to?”

“Okay.”

Five minutes later, and they’re sitting at the table together with steaming cups of honey and camomile tea. Brendan’s body is a solid line of heat against Ste’s own; somehow they’ve ended up leaning into each other, as if this is normal for them. It feels normal. Ste thinks it should be their normal. He likes this, doesn’t want it to end. It’s in a moment like this that Ste considers the possibility of falling in love with a man he thinks he doesn’t know well enough to love at all, and thinks it wouldn’t be so bad.

“I feel like I only know parts of you, just parts that you don’t care about the world seeing,” Ste says in a hushed tone, finding bravery from nowhere, “I think... I’d like to know more,” He adds, even quieter, staring down into the amber liquid in his mug.

“That depends on what you want to know,” Brendan breathes, eyes closed like it hurts him to offer Ste a leg to stand on. It makes something warm blossom in Ste’s stomach, that Brendan might give him this, just something, to let Ste know him a little better.

“When’s your birthday?” He asks, starting off easy.

“October 18th,” Brendan replies easily.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Dishonestly: black. Honestly: purple.” Somehow, Ste finds he isn’t surprised.

“What’s your middle name?”

Brendan’s face seems to darken at that question, before he answers with a quick growl of “Seamus”, and takes a long sip of his tea. Ste doesn’t push it, moves on with his questions.

“Why do you hate being gay?”

Brendan whips his head around so fast that Ste’s surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. He half expects to get a cut off answer about how he should mind his own business, or maybe a punch in the face. Instead, though, Brendan actually answers him.

“Tell me, Steven, what was your relationship with your father like?” He asks.

“I never knew him,” Ste admits, “I had a step-dad that beat me up all the time instead, and my mum just drank and did nothing about it.” Brendan taps his fingers on the side of his mug, staring off into space.

“My father hated queers, Steven. And he hated me, too. I spent near enough my whole childhood wondering: why me? Why me? What did I do that was so wrong, huh? To this day, I ask myself that same question. What could make a father hate his son so much that he’d do that to him; but you know what? I still haven’t found an answer; nowhere even close. I could never do that to my boys, but he could do it to me.

“I’d lie in my bed at night, with the covers pulled right up, terrified, and I’d fall asleep dreaming of my ma’, wishing she was still there. He’d come in, drunk, and he’d pull me out of the bed and get me to fight him, call me ‘puff’ and ‘queer’, every homophobic name under the sun, and I’d be dead on my feet, unable to fight back. But that’s not even the worst. When he was drunk, it was better; when he was sober, though... he could do far worse to me. Sometimes, when I got a little older, I’d try things like sneaking whiskey and vodka into his drinks when he wasn’t looking, try and get him drunk, make him inept. He caught me once; I never did it again...

“So that’s why, Steven. I’ve got Cheryl telling me how daddy was a sick man and none of what he said was true, that I didn’t deserve any of it, that being gay is okay. But you know what I think? I think it’s not, because that’s the way I’ve been programmed. You know what else I think? He was right. Look at me. I’m exactly what he always said I would be, a ‘bender’, a ‘dirty cock-sucking little whore’, an ‘embarrassment’. Got two kids but it doesn’t count for anything if the wife is an ex. No, no, no; it just means that I couldn’t be normal even when I had the perfect set up.”

And then Brendan leaves, goes back to his bedroom, and Ste is left with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Their little moment, blanketed by the night, feels simultaneously momentous and heartbreaking. The information makes him feel a little empty, the thought of Brendan hating himself because of that bastard of a man like a kick in the ribs; but Ste thinks they’ve crossed a line, somewhere, maybe. Brendan shared this with him, this little piece of himself that takes up such a big part of his life, and the world didn’t end, and there was no screaming, and everything is fine. He thinks, maybe, this is a boundary they’ve crossed successfully, and he wonders when they’ll cross the next one... he wonders what the next one is.

* * *

  On Monday, Ste goes to work leaving Leah and Lucas in Brendan’s care.

Even though he trusts Brendan with his kids, he can’t help but worry. He works distractedly, and only manages to get a grip of himself when Jackson tells him he’s slacking. As soon as his first break comes up, he goes outside with his sandwich and calls the house phone. It picks up on the fifth ring, and Brendan’s gravelly voice greets him.

“Let me guess,” He drawls, “Steven.” Ste rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his sandwich, replying with his mouth full because he can be a spiteful little prick like that.

“Yup,” He munches, “Just checking in on me kids, aren’t a?”

“They’re fine, Steven,” Brendan says; there’s a sound of shuffling, like he’s sitting down, and Ste can faintly hear what sounds like cartoons in the background, “They ate cereal for breakfast with glasses of orange juice just after you left, and I dropped them off at school with ham and ketchup sandwiches, perfectly unscathed, perfectly happy.”

Ste smiles despite himself, taking another bite of his sandwich; perhaps it’s his imagination, but his food suddenly tastes a lot better.

“Okay,” He breathes, “That’s good. Thank you... you know, for doing this,” He smiles shyly, even though he knows Brendan can’t see him so really he doesn’t have to feel bashful.

“Yeah,” Brendan grunts, and then hangs up. Rude; but Ste isn’t going to say anything because he’d very much like to keep his moody Irish babysitter babysitting free of charge.

  When he goes back into work, he’s far more focused. He sends out orders in perfect time, exchanges easy smiles with the waiters and waitresses, and makes plans to go out for drinks with Jackson and Kelly. Jackson asks about Todd, and Ste’s stomach plummets, but he grits his teeth and forces a smile, suddenly unsure about that situation and what he plans on doing with it. He thinks about Brendan, an unattainable enigma. Well, unattainable is the key word – what could possibly go wrong, seeing Todd again? So that’s how Ste ends up with a double date planned for Saturday; he texts Todd at lunch telling him so, and when he gets a reply it feels like a punch to the stomach.

**Todd;**

_Is this your inadvertent way of saying we’re boyfriends? I’m pretty sure it’s only couples that do double dates ha, ha._

Boyfriends with Todd; it doesn’t make his stomach flutter, or his heart beat faster – no, it makes him feel guilty and selfish.

**To Todd;**

_I slept over at your place and we didn’t even have sex. I think that says it all._

**Todd;**

_Hmm, maybe we could change that..._

Oh, God. Shit, Ste thinks. That is definitely something he doesn’t want to do.

**To Todd;**

_Ha, well gotta get back to work now. See U later._

He pockets his phone and doesn’t look at it again for the rest of his shift.

  When Ste gets home, he finds Brendan on the sofa with Leah and Lucas piled on top of him, and they’re watching ‘Beauty and the Beast’. His heart pumps a little faster, feels like it’s swelling in his chest, and his treacherous mind taunts him, _what if this could be real, imagine they’re his kids too, this could be your future, imagine that..._

Ste has officially decided that men like Brendan Brady should be banned from being seen taking care of kids; it’s unfair to the world, and especially to Ste’s fragile heart. Oh, God – now he sounds like a swooning maiden.

Taking a step closer, Ste can’t help the impossibly fond smile that sweeps his face: they’re asleep – all three of them. It’s a shame to have to wake them up; Leah and Lucas _never_ get to sleep when they should, and Brendan’s insomnia is enough of a reason that Ste feels guilty for even contemplating disturbing them, but they’re piled in Ste’s sleeping spot, and Brendan’s most likely going to get a crick in his joints if he stays that way, and the kids have school in the morning. Perhaps he can carry them off without them noticing...

He gently, cautiously, scoops Lucas up into his arms, careful to avoid waking any of them – does so successfully – and carries him into his bedroom, tucking him into the bed; the kids are already in their pyjamas, thank God. Ste would stress about them cleaning their teeth, but if they haven’t done so already then one night won’t go amiss.

When he goes back into the living room, Brendan is awake and looking panicked, but he soon relaxes again when he sees Ste. Leah bless her, hasn’t noticed anything and remains soundly asleep, despite the frantic shuffling Brendan’s performed.

“Sorry, just didn’t wanna wake them, and I was trying not to wake you, too,” Ste whispers; Brendan just nods, looking sleepy again. Ste takes Leah and puts her into bed alongside Lucas, and when he goes back to the living room a second time Brendan’s up and alert, which is a shame. “Sorry,” Ste sighs, “I really didn’t wanna wake you. You don’t get enough sleep as it is.”

Brendan considers him for a moment, like always, before he answers.

“I’ve got sleeping tablets,” He says.

“Why don’t you use them then?” Ste asks, frowning. Brendan looks down at his lap and glares, like he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. Ste recognises that expression; it’s the one Brendan makes when he’s deciding how much of himself he’s going to reveal. “You don’t have to explain yourself, you know,” He says quite honestly, “I’m not expecting anything from you. It’s just that despite you being an asshole ninety-five percent of the time... I’m familiar with the other five percent, too,” He doesn’t know why he’s saying all of this, laying himself bare, so many cards on the table, “It’s enough to make me care about you, no matter how much I wish I didn’t.”

He doesn’t know what Brendan sees when the man looks back up at him, but something in his face softens, glare becoming something closer to an awed stare, and when he ducks his head again, he’s not pensive or annoyed, but instead it looks like he might be ashamed, or embarrassed.

“I don’t like not being...” Brendan pauses for a moment, before, “No, I _have_ to be in control,” He amends quietly. “When I do sleep, I sleep light; I can react quickly. But... those things,” he nods his head towards a bottle of pills on the bar, “would knock me out, and I wouldn’t have control.”

“Why do you have to be in control, Brendan?” Ste asks, taking hesitant steps closer until he lowers himself on the sofa, relieved to find that Brendan hasn’t bolted or made him leave. Something does harden, though. The mask slips back on, and just for a moment before it does Ste notes some confusion there, some incredulity, like the man can’t believe he just revealed that about himself, like he doesn’t know why he just told Ste what he did; but the mask slips back on all the same.

“A man is always in control, Steven,” He says sternly, “You got two options in this world, kid: control, or be controlled. You’ve gotta have the power, and if someone takes it from you – you take the power back.”

“That’s cryptic, init,” Ste furrows his brow, sitting down. “And stop calling me kid whenever you feel vulnerable. It’s not attractive.” Brendan smiles mirthlessly, disregarding him.

“It’s the way the world works, Steven. Power’s everywhere: power-hungry politicians, corrupt policemen, desperate thugs and the social hierarchy; it’s everywhere. Everyone’s desperate for their chance to own something, to take control of their lives, and they don’t give a fuck who they shit on to get their hands on that power.”

* * *

  It’s Friday night and somehow Ste’s found himself sweating through his deodorant in a button down with tight jeans, dancing mindlessly with Cheryl and Jackson to some chart song in Brendan’s club. The man himself is behind the bar, serving drinks as he talks to “I don’t dance” Nate, who’s propped up on a bar stool and being a responsible adult, still on his first pint.

Ste might be a little merry, not far off from being drunk. Not _oh-my-God-I’m-so-drunk-I-may-choke-on-my-own-vomit_ drunk, but drunk enough that he’ll soon lose most of his inhibitions and find everything hilarious and easy. Cheryl’s already pissed, slurring lyrics loudly as she swishes her hips out of time with the beat. Jackson’s... well, Ste’s never seen Jackson drink before so he doesn’t know what Jackson is. All he does know is that there’s a lot of open-mouthed, closed-eyes, liquid-like movements being made that just about pass as dancing; he kind of looks like Ste’s old mate Jason did when he danced while he was stoned, loose and boneless, letting the music moves his limbs for him, uncaring for how it looked. Ste knows he’s not much better, though, this little fact proved by the way he’s wiggling his hips like a loon.

“Don’ le’me sit down in one of those sofas, Ste,” Jackson slurs as he slinks up next to him, “I will ne’er get up.”

Ste just laughs, swinging an arm over Jackson’s shoulders and positions himself so he’s lined himself side to side with Jackson, and now they’re dancing together, giggling like teenagers, Ste practically hanging off Jackson’s neck.

“Now, now, lover boys, this is a public place,” Cheryl teases them with a hiccup. Jackson snorts, cupping Ste’s jaw and giving him a loud, wet kiss on the lips.

“N’aw, we’re tight, me n’ him are, aren’t we, Ste?” He chuckles, winking exaggeratedly. Ste snorts and grins, waggling his eyebrows at Cheryl.

“Yeah, proper in love, us,” He grins, and Cheryl gawps a little.

“Oh my God, you’re gay!” She gasps, pointing at Ste, “You said you were straight, Mr!”

“It’s a recent discovery!” Ste squawks, “Hey- wait- hang on a minute, why are you only pointing the finger at me?” Jackson snickers uncontrollably against him, burying his face in Ste’s shoulder. Cheryl cackles, positively gleeful.

“He’s straighter than a ruler,” She clacks, smacking her lips. “I mean, look at him!” Ste does, and in doing so sees nothing that would give Jackson away as being neither straight nor gay.

“How can you tell by looking at somebody? That’s completely unfair,” Ste pouts.

“Honey, you’ve just got a twink look about you. You could still look like a twink and be straight, but the fact of the matter here is that you’re not,” Cheryl smirks, patting his belly, before sauntering off to her husband. Ste plucks at his shirt, looking down at his skinny waist and flat stomach.

“Well that was rude,” He huffs. Jackson grins sloppily at him, eyes glazed. “Jesus, how much have you had?”

“Enough,” Jackson giggles – giggles!

“I’ll say,” Ste sighs, shaking his head with a fond smile.

“Shots!” Jackson suddenly exclaims. Ste grimaces, leaning his ear away from Jackson’s facial region.

“Like you said, mate,” He grins, hauling the swaying man over to the bar to sit him next to Sensible Nate. “You’ve had enough.”

“You haven’t though,” Jackson hiccups, and then descends into another round of giggles. Nate watches on, amused, while Cheryl dances her way back into the sea of bodies, completely oblivious.

“Ugh,” Ste groans. “Brendan! Can we get some water down here please?”

Brendan looks up from where he’s serving a couple, sees Jackson, and immediately heaves a longsuffering sigh. He hands the two drinks over to the couple with a gracious (and completely forced) smile, accepting their money with a polite “enjoy your night”, before stashing it in the till and grabbing a plastic cup to fill with tap water. He saunters over, placing the cup on the bar.

“Ye better keep an eye on your friend’s intake, Steven. How much has he had?”

“God knows,” Ste shrugs, taking hold of the water and tilting Jackson’s head up from where he’s been enraptured in studying the way the bones of his hands move if he drums his fingers along the bar top. “Here,” Ste says to him, “have some of this. It’s dead nice, and it’ll get you wasted.”

Jackson, the gullible, excitable puppy that he is when drunk, takes it and gulps all of it down immediately, despite previously admitting he’s had enough.

“That didn’t taste like much,” he frowns, glaring at the empty cup with an air of distaste.

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause it’s so strong, they had to strip the taste so people would actually like it.” Ste glares when he sees Brendan barely stifle a howl of laughter behind his fist. It’s a poor lie, so what? It’s not like Jackson knows the difference.

“Really?” Jackson gapes, awed. “Can I have some more?” Brendan’s chest heaves but he doesn’t comment when Ste shoves the cup at him with a furious look, just fills it up again. Like the first pint, Jackson greedily guzzles it all in one go, smiling dazedly in his own little bubble of intoxication.

“That’ll be enough for now, Steven,” Brendan tells Ste, taking the cup away and grabbing a packet of crisps and a packet of peanuts and tossing them onto the bar. “Have him eat something, and let him have a piss, then come back for more.” Ste nods, and is fortunate enough that the prospect of food sounds amazing to Jackson right now, so there’s no persuasion or forcing involved.

Ste slaps a fiver onto the bar, “Get me a round of shots,” he says, and turns to Nate with a grin.

“Fine,” Nate sighs, finishing off his pint which no doubt must have been warm at this point.

“Good man!”


End file.
